


Shades Of Blue

by vaziah



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Cryptid Hunter Keith, Demon Shiro (Voltron), Depressed Lance (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Langst, Light Angst, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Protective Shiro (Voltron), Self-Discovery, Winged Lance, Witch Hunk, cryptid lance, heavy focus on platonic stuff, keith could talk abt them for hours fight me on this, keith dresses in dark clothes, lance doesnt leave the house a lot, sorta - Freeform, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-21 01:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12446276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaziah/pseuds/vaziah
Summary: Afraid of the wings attached to his back, Lance isolates himself to his home, resigned to stay there until he withers to dust. But he isn't alone, his family and friends are there every step of the way and Lance has been able to carve out a chunk of happiness for himself.On his birthday, someone who holds more information about his existence than he's ever thought to know moves just across the street, and he's not sure whether or not he likes the changes they bring.





	Shades Of Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Sup peeps! I'm back with a multichapter story! The first chapter is really long because I've been sitting on this one for months. Every chapter after this one will only be 10-15k so I don't completely die. And the next chapter should be up either this week or next week (edit: maybe... im moving so we'll see.) I don't know how long this will be but hopefully it won't drag for too long.
> 
> Also, a little heads up, the first portion is in past tense, and then it switches to present tense. (anyone who can just keep up writing past tense is too powerful and imma need u to stay 500 ft away from me at all times.) Art for the story will be up sometime soon, hopefully. Drawing wings is hard... and o god pls tell me if that isn't the platonic tag for lance and Shiro I will delete it immediately. The relationship is strictly platonic and is a big presence in the fic. The first chapter focuses mostly on lance and shiro. The klance comes in next chapter. its rlly soft tho. just them chilling.
> 
> If you see errors I apologize beforehand. I don't have a beta so this is all just me.
> 
>  
> 
> Kudos and Comments are always appreciated! See you guys next chapter! im gonna end this long ass note here because holy crap
> 
> P.S. you can hmu on [tumblr](http://vahnuh.tumblr.com/)  
> .

It first started out as markings.

 

Just a multitude of red, angry veins that spiderwebbed across the top meat of Lance’s back. His grandmother had gasped at the sight and whispered in a tongue he was along the path to understanding. She questioned him as to whether it hurt, and he didn’t have an answer for her because _he had no idea what she was talking about._ There had been a moment of silence where Lance stared at his grandmother’s uncharacteristically worried expression. Her dark eyes searched him thoroughly, which left Lance to only stare up at her in wonder.

After what could have only been a couple of minutes, his grandmother’s lips upturned into a watery smile. Lance was then told to put on his shirt and go play with his cousins whilst they still had the afternoon light, and that was the end of it.

 

Then came the growth.

 

The conversation with his grandmother had been long forgotten by that point, not even a scrap of memory returned as she lifted his shirt to inspect the reason as to why he felt like he wasn’t alone in his clothes. He was comprehensive enough to recognize fear in his grandmother’s face, and empathetic enough to start panicking alongside her.

His parents were brought into the room then, and they had immediately rushed to Lance, hesitantly prodding and investigating whatever it was on his back. He cried for a short amount of time, sensitive to the amount of anxiety his guardians were exuding. A few soothing words from his mother brought him down long enough to allow him to blink through the tears in his eyes, and glimpse his reflection in the long mirror that had been stashed against the wall. It hadn’t been much to look at, but what it was forming to be was unmistakable.

The growth was thick at the wings of his back, thinned as it descended, and stopped right at the dip of his spine. It was the rich brown color of his skin, with a patch of blue discoloration at the ends. When he had concentrated long enough, the growth had moved fluidly, folding to rest closer to the skin of his back. His parent’s and grandmother gasped collectively, but Lance was elated. It was just like the heroes in the comic books he had grown to love. But when he had turned to his parent’s, he only saw fear. Not towards him, but of the unknown that came with his new addition.

He hadn’t been allowed to play with his cousins for the rest of the day, and only remained in the dining room adjacent to the living area. Lance heard his parents as they whispered in the foyer, the familiar sound of his grandmother’s voice- and a few others in the mix- carrying through the strange emptiness of his home. He hadn’t dawdled on the reason why he was being isolated because his father had permitted dessert for dinner.

 When they returned, the adults streamed into the room, and his mother looked more stressed than he had ever seen her.

 

 She held a thick sweater in her hands.

 

 

 

 

Not much changed after that. His parents didn’t tiptoe around him, and still treated him like he was their entire world.

But he never missed the lingering looks on his back.

And Lance, still permitted to be around his cousins, played as he always did. But only if he wore the sweater.

Only if he didn’t let them get too close to his back.

Only if he didn’t talk about the growth.

He hadn’t understood at the time why he was being forced to keep that part of him hidden. But any threat that involved him being grounded and not allowed to play had his lips sealed tight.

So, he’d went along with the sudden bout of rules, didn’t complain about the fact that his wardrobe was now mostly filled with heavy clothes, kept his mouth shut, and didn’t prod his parents for details as to why he was the only one with the growth.

But when he stood in front of his mirror at night, he’d flexed the muscles of his wings, and smile at the way the newly sprouting feathers caught the path of the moonlight.

They were a glimmering blue, and if he stood in the light long enough, they would glow. It wasn’t much, just a dim layer of blue light that softly illuminated his immediate surroundings. His wings were growing bigger, nearly coming to rest at the end of his back. They appeared small when Lance clutched them tight to his back, but fully extended, they were near the length of his body. As they were in the moment, everything was too thin and frail to allow him to fly.

Which he tried on several occasions.

His father told him that they weren’t strong enough yet, but they were on the right track to. The face his dad made when he divulged that to him wasn’t exactly comparable to the delight Lance felt.

His grandmother had indulged him with ancient tales of heavenly beings with additions just like his. She’d mapped out the stories with her fingers, and maybe a drawing or two if her arthritis wasn’t acting up that day. Sometimes, when his grandmother was too tired, his mother would hold him tight against her chest and sing lullabies that had been lost to the ages, and sometimes tunes that were lodged in the memories of his infancy.

Eventually, his wings had started to outgrow his ‘protective’ clothing. It only ever resulted in even bigger sweaters, which hadn’t been too much of a problem.

 

The event that transpired a few months later, in fact, was.

 

 

He hadn’t been able to keep his wings flat on his back as he’d dressed that morning. Holding them down at long intervals left them twitching restlessly. But only after a few minutes of intense concentration was he able to keep them still long enough to stuff them under his sweater. He thought that would be the end of it, but while playing in his backyard on that same sunny morning, the back of his sweater had started to flutter, and just as his cousins had begun to question, he was suddenly being lifted and hauled away by one of his uncles who seemed to appear out of nowhere.

 

 Thinking back, Lance is sure the adults had always been watching.

 

The days following the incident left Lance alone in his room. When he strained his hearing, he could catch faint fragments of yelling from somewhere downstairs.

His grandmother had kept him company. She helped pluck the vibrantly blue feathers that had begun to loosen. They never dimmed in beauty, clearly unaware they were no longer a part of his anatomy. Lance kept the strays in a multitude of jars, and even as months went by, they would still glow faintly.

It was after he screwed the lid back onto a new jar that his parents had reentered his room.

They told Lance he wouldn’t be able to see his cousin’s as much anymore.

Lance bawled as soon as the punishment was out. He kicked and screamed, and dug his fingers into the material of his father’s pants. His grandmother had tried to soothe him, but he didn’t hear her past the thunder that rolled in his ears.

Hands on the tops of his shoulder made Lance’s eyes snap open, and his father had been glancing back at him with a dark expression. The type of dark that comes with hearing grave news.

And then he’d told him.

About the danger, about him.

He hadn’t known that it was strange- didn’t know that _he_ was strange. Lance had assumed that only his siblings didn’t have ‘the growth,’ he’d thought that people outside of his home had the same type of happenings.

But no, he was the anomaly.

And then he could see it, like a fog raising from over his eyes. The terror in his father’s eyes.

At Lance.

What could happen to him if word got out.

What could happen to _all of them_ if word got out.

The warnings, the hazards of his existence, all of it embedding into Lance like thick poison as his father grasped his shoulders, shook the information into him, rattled the poison into every inch of vein. At the time, he’d wanted to cry, but it seemed like his father was doing enough of that for the both of them.

His mother granted him the mercy of pulling his father away. She’d stabbed him with one of her stern glares, and it worked on his father like a spray bottle on a cat. It was a little slice of normalcy that Lance very much needed in that moment. His mother had knelt and wound her strong arms around him, trying to soothe the bite of his father’s words with the melodic tone of her voice.

It worked because Lance had begged with every inch of his being for it to.

 

 

 

 

Playtime with his cousins changed drastically. At least two adults were required to be in the vicinity, which put a damper on their adventures. But Lance hadn’t felt up to playing anymore, and he was usually left in the corner to entertain himself with coloring books and dolls.

Eventually, even that lost its appeal, and he remained in the corner, content to just watch his cousins play amongst each other.

His grandmother had left for his mother’s hometown at some point, and Lance didn’t listen to the reason why. She no longer lingered in her chair to engage him in stories or idle chatter, and that made Lance’s heart hurt in a way he couldn’t comprehend. So, he would sit in the dirt until the sun waned on the horizon, and someone would come to collect him.

His family had started to take notice almost immediately, not used to Lance’s prolonged silence.

Lance’s aunt on his mother’s side had visited then. He knew something important had to have happened because she lived on the other side of the world, and it cost a lot of money to get her here. He didn’t know what could have warranted her visit at the time. The house wasn’t decorated, so not a holiday, nor a birthday.

When she arrived, his mother hugged her tight and his father permitted him to take off his sweater. After the initial surprise, she had begun to ask him several questions. She observed his wings and wrote something on a piece of paper with a slap of wood Lance had recognized as a clipboard. The questions started to get invasive, the sort of invasive that usually came when he went to the big, white building downtown.

He didn’t like that place.

They started their conversation when the sun was high in the sky, and it ended when a variety of dark colors began to bleed into the orange on the horizon.

At nightfall, his aunt laid him down for bed, and she told him the wacky happenings around her office. They were stories that he always loved, but Lance couldn’t find the energy to offer any sort of response.

Only when Lance opened his eyes to morning light had he realized he’d fallen asleep.

 

 

He was diagnosed with something called ‘depression.’

It was a long word to Lance, and he could barely say it- let alone understand what it meant. But, apparently, his parents did. Lance heard the word a lot as they spoke his name in hushed whispers. He idled on the steps, tiny hands curled around the banister as he waited.

His aunt stayed the night, murmuring something about ‘watching someone’s progress.’

His mother held him close that night in his room, tears staining her dark brown skin, and the crown of Lance’s head. His father was on his other side, glued to him just as his mother was, but wary of his wings. He kept apologizing under his breath as he squished Lance to his broad form.

He’d asked why they were crying- why his father was apologizing so much, but that only seemed to make it worse, so he kept his mouth shut.

The morning that followed was strange to Lance. His mother had come out of her room with a ‘modified shirt’- as she called it.

It was a turtleneck- his favorite type of top because it hid the feathers that strayed- with an oval-shaped hole in the back, and a zipper in the front. The bone of his wings struggled to fit through at first, but as soon as that was over, his feathers had no trouble sliding through the slot. They ruffled softly, and Lance had felt a bit lighter.

_But how was he going to hide them?_

He’d asked his mother as much, and her face fell, which caused Lance to backpedal. Before he could even think of a response to remedy the situation, his mother said,

“You don’t need to hide when you’re here.”

_But the government people could see through windows, couldn’t they?_

Lance asked this tentatively, not wanting to set his mother off again.

His father had appeared then, causing him to jump when his large hand landed on his shoulder. He had only said one sentence, but it was enough to dispel Lance’s worry.

“We’ll make sure you’re safe.”

He still stayed in his precious corner. Sometimes his cousins would come over and occupy his space but gave Lance the room he needed for whatever emotions were unfurling in the pits of his brain.

It made him feel better.

Lance still had to wear his sweaters around his cousin’s, but in his home, he could wear what he pleased. He could flap his wings as much as he wanted, could test out how much weight his wings could take. His father would lift him above his head and let Lance pretend he was flying. His mother made him garbs to match the angels from his storybooks. It had made him feel silly at first, but he loved the way it made him feel even lighter, and if he concentrated, he could lift himself just an inch higher than before.

Bit by bit, Lance felt the heavy cloud in his mind retreat. It never dispersed- and Lance wasn’t sure if it could- but he resigned himself to live with it.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He’d been isolated early enough in his life that Lance had only found it a little strange that his cousins were gone for most of the day. His home was big enough, and there were just enough people around to keep him occupied until he could see them again.

When he inquired to his grandmother over the phone, she told him they were leaving each day to go to something called ‘school.’ And it was something akin to the studies Lance had to do with his father for a few hours each day. He didn’t exactly like to have to sit still for the allotted time, and he definitely couldn’t grasp how his cousins could go there and do the same thing for more than seven hours.

But, as always, curiosity reared its ugly head, and Lance had grabbed his mother’s work laptop to research more about the place.

He was terrified as much as he was captivated by the information presented to him.

He’d found that kids- _lots of kids_ \- would go into a big building together, assembled according to age- sometimes academic range, but still in the same place. They learned the same things Lance did, the only difference being that the place brought together kids from all walks of life.

As much as Lance had wanted to experience those conversations, he also didn’t want the dangers that came with it.

He had shut the laptop before he could read any further.

 

Lance couldn’t grasp why anyone would have the need for something called ‘Search History.’ And he cursed whoever thought of it because he’d been told to sit in the living room, had to endure the scrutinizing gaze of his parents all because of the damned invention. He had waited for some form of scolding for what seemed like forever, but it never came.

They dispersed after some time as his mother had gone to make dinner.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Shiro made an appearance a little time after that.

It was during one of his study halls.

A knock sounded in the foyer, and Lance had been instantly intrigued because his family members never knocked.

Lance couldn’t catch the specifics of the conversation his father was engaging their ‘guest’ in, but he relaxed at his father’s amicable tone. He jumped down from the stool, urging his feathers to stop their incessant fluttering as he neared the threshold of the living room.

By that distance, he could pick up on a few fleeting words.

Mostly his name.

Intrigued, Lance had inched a little closer, wary of keeping his wings tight against his person.

He caught a glimpse of the person from around the corner. Even from afar, Lance had instantly gathered that this person was tall.

Taller than his father.

His skin wasn’t the color Lance was accustomed to seeing. His family was an assortment of brown hues. The lightest being his father, whose skin was a creamy brown color.

The person’s skin was a light color.

Really light.

The same color as some of the characters from his comic books. Pale was the word Lance picked out some time ago. He was stacked identically as them too, with a stark pink scar across the bridge of a straight nose that Lance could see even from his position. The man held a professional air to him, back straight as an arrow, with a voice just as polite.

Everything about him screamed ‘official,’ and it made Lance’s hair stand on end.

He’d listened to all his parent’s rules- followed them to the tee.

_Had they decided to turn him in any way?_

Lance could distantly hear the admittedly loud sound his feathers made as they’d wrestled together nervously. He couldn’t back away before his father and partner ceased their conversation and turned their heads. Being too scared to move, he only peered up at his father with horrified, teary eyes.

His father’s expression had been surprised for a moment before it softened and he was beckoning Lance over. Lance had glanced back at his wings, the rustling still filling the silence, and looked back to his father.

There was no malice in his expression, nothing to hint that Lance was in trouble.

_Had he stopped loving him? Is that why they were sending him off with this man?_

His father waved him over with an encouraging hand, smile widening by a fraction.

Not one to disobey his parents, even if they were sending him to his death, Lance carried himself to the door and grasped his sweater in tiny fists.

The stranger had watched him with what could only have been gentle curiosity. 

He rushed behind his father’s legs and fought the tears that had begun to sting his eyes. A large hand on the small of his back had steered Lance to rest in front of the stranger. Lance had been close to begging when his father finally told him the man’s name.

It was Takashi Shirogane- or ‘Shiro’, for short.

And he was going to be Lance’s new teacher.

Shiro towered over him and Lance had to crane his neck just to get a glimpse of the older gentleman’s face. It was a collection of chiseled lines, complete with a lax smile. He addressed Lance with an even softer voice as if he was afraid Lance would flee at a single flicker of menace, which hadn’t been too far from the truth.

He knelt, which gave Lance a better view of the shock of white in the bang of Shiro’s hair.

A patch of salt in a river of black.

His hair was shaved into an undercut style, the type his uncle had after he’d come back from something called ‘the army.’

His filter at the time was minimal, so he’d instantly questioned if Shiro was ‘really old.’

The male had laughed heartily, and answered something along the lines of,

“You could say that.”

Tension melted from Lance by that point, now aware that his parents weren’t trying to get rid of him.

Shiro had let Lance touch his hair, and his father had to intervene when Lance had given a not so accidental tug.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

As it turned out, Shiro was probably the nicest adult he had ever encountered in his life. Not to say his family members weren’t nice, but he hadn’t known what to expect from a stranger.

He was patient with Lance’s random outbursts. He didn’t look at him sideways when his wings flapped animatedly after he got too excited. He didn’t try to yank him back to the ground when he’d ‘jump’ a little too high. And he let Lance climb onto his shoulders so he could try to reach the high ceiling. It was a futile task, but the darkly colored ceiling had matched the inky black of space, and he could pretend he was traveling there.

To space.

It was something Shiro had introduced him to. The big guy loved it, had even been all the way up there at some point. An ‘astronaut’ is what Shiro had told him he was. Lance had been amazed at the time because Shiro hadn’t needed wings to get that far- he didn’t even _know_ you could get that far.

Now Lance loved it too- as much as Shiro did. Loved the beautiful expanse of it. Enraptured by the fact that even though the stars were several lightyears away, they still managed to shine brightly.

“I wish I could go up there too.” Lance whispered in the darkness of his living room as he watched the star’s twinkle faintly. Shiro had placed the pieces of his telescope down into its casing and joined Lance on the cushions stashed on the ledge of the bay window.

“Who says you can’t, Little Blue?” Shiro responded.

 Lance’s wings fluttered as if alerting Shiro of their presence.

He didn’t answer him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was on the eve of Lance’s ninth birthday when his mother introduced him to Hunk.

Hunk was a chubby kid with dark skin, kind eyes, and a warm smile to boot. His parents told him that Shiro had found out about Hunk through multiple connections of his. Which was a strange thing to say, because, somehow, Shiro finding a kid was more special than anyone else finding one? It had puzzled Lance until he was face to face with the aforementioned child.

Lance had immediately seen that something was off about Hunk, no matter how comforting his presence was.

He was shy about approaching Lance, but the brunet had no problem with strolling up to him with a greeting. Hunk tentatively outstretched his hand, and as soon as their hands were within contact, Lance felt his heart unwind. His wings started to shake, near violently before Lance willed them into submission.

“Sorry, you seemed stressed. I can ask next time,” Hunk’s voice was unsurprisingly soft, with almost no volume. And Lance had to blink and gather the last of the words as they left Hunk’s mouth. A few seconds passed as Lance clutched at the front of his shirt, peering at Hunk with wide eyes. “Witch.” He supplies, as if it answers everything.

_Witch?_

_Oh._

Oh!

Lance’s heart had gone into overdrive because he had _finally_ met someone abnormal.

Like him.

Lance threw himself around Hunk and locked his arms around the other child’s shoulders. Hunk had clearly been taken aback, but his mouth stretched into a wide smile, and Lance knew that he was just as delighted as he was.

He’d been so wrapped up in his new friend that he hadn’t caught his parents watching on with unbridled joy.

 

 

 

Hunk came over every single day after that, usually escorted by his parents, who were just as sweet. The visits tended to last until nightfall and sometimes extended into the next day. Hunk showed Lance an assortment of spells. They always captivated Lance, the way Hunk’s fingers and eyes would glow brightly as he conjured objects into existence. If Lance were any less of a person, he would be envious enough to become bitter, but all the self-pity in the world would never be enough to make Lance hate Hunk. He had just been happy to be a part of Hunk’s life, and even more grateful that Hunk trusted him enough to show him his magic.

He learned that there was an assortment of witches, and while Hunk could cast a wide range of spells, he mostly dealt with emotions.

And food.

Lance would always favor his mother’s meals above all, but he would be a gigantic liar if he said that Hunk’s weren’t cutting it close.

If Hunk could see it and knew the ingredients, he could conjure up any sort of food. It was a bit harder to create candy, what with all the flavorings, but when Hunk had somehow managed it- to cut a long story short, their parents had to cut in when they both awoke the next day and started vomiting.

Lance would do that night all over again if he could.

 

Hunk could go to school since his anomaly wasn’t as apparent as Lance’s. It had made Lance envious learning that, but Hunk always came back every single day to tell him the wild stories of school. Lance ached for the experience, but with the unpredictability of his wings, he had severely doubted that he would ever be able to keep his cover as a ‘normal’ student for long. Lance promptly buried those thoughts, already accustomed to ignoring the longing feeling that nudged at his chest. He wouldn’t let anything spoil the privilege of knowing Hunk.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Lance was eleven when he flew out in the open for the first time.

It was on a night when Lance was trying to translate a portion of Japanese literature that Hunk had suggested an idea that Lance didn’t think his friend was capable of.

To sneak out.

Lance wasn’t the voice of reason of the two, he left that to Hunk, but this sparked many qualms. He’d never snuck out before, hadn’t even thought about doing something like that. Scenarios of his wings revealing themselves to strangers wasn’t a situation he wanted to face.

But the longer he’d sat and considered Hunk’s offer, the harder it was to refuse.

 

 

It didn’t take a lot of effort to get out of his house, and Lance had felt a pang of guilt. His parents trusted him enough to think he wouldn’t sneak out. Hunk kept a loose hold on Lance’s arm, and Lance knew his friend was giving him an out.

He didn’t take it.

 

Hunk had only taken him downtown, but the night scene had been vastly different than the rushed glimpses from the memory of his early childhood. There had been several groups of people, more than he’d ever seen in his life. Everything was too loud, too bright, and just an explosion of sensations that sparked Lance’s brain to life. His wings had started to ruffle immediately, as if sensing he was free from the roof of his house.

He wanted to fly. He’d said as much, which gave Hunk pause. The kid had been ordering a hot dog, but he turned to Lance with a gleam in his eye. He led Lance down the block until the presence of life started to slowly trickle out.

They walked for what felt like forever, but it was probably only half an hour. Hunk had taken him to a clearing somewhere up in the mountains that were little ways away from the city. Tall trees swallowed the edge of the area, with brightly colored flowers circling it’s edging.

Lance had hollered loudly and listened as his voice echoed back to him. Hunk had grabbed the ends of Lance’s jacket then, and pointed upwards to the black sky.

Hunk wanted Lance to take flight.

So he did.

The grass had swayed and flattened under the wind pressure brought about from his wings as he stretched them to their full extent. Their glow intensified as the wind grew rapid. A hard push and Lance had rocketed several feet off the ground. His wings drank at the free air greedily, and Lance had laughed loudly, twisting and turning in the sky above the clearing. Hunk laughed alongside him, and Lance could feel his friend’s happiness radiate from him in pulsing waves. He grabbed Hunk soon after and hefted higher into the air.

They could see the city lights from where they were hovering.

He held Hunk’s arms with a strength he didn’t realize he had and spiraled back down to the grass. Just as he’d been within a few yards of the ground, he pushed upwards again.

Hunk had thrown up soon after.

Lance felt guilty, but as Hunk swiped at his mouth, a joyful laugh escaped his lips.

And that night, as he laid in bed, he wished that he hadn’t followed Hunk’s beckoning hand so easily.

Because then he’d begun to starve for more. It’d hurt, stung like the aftermath of a slap to the face when he realized he couldn’t- _wouldn’t ever_ do it again.

 

 

He didn’t miss the knowing look Shiro gave him the following day. Guilt had eaten a gaping hole in his chest, and he pressed his face to Shiro’s chest and cried- almost begged for forgiveness. The elder had held onto him just as tight, and Lance got the impression that Shiro was asking _him_ for forgiveness. The elder didn’t let go of him, and Lance was grateful for that. When his parents passed by, Lance pretended to be engaged in the book Shiro had deftly picked up, and hid his bloodshot eyes behind its rim.  

When Hunk arrived from school, he didn’t breach the topic of the earlier night, already sensing Lance didn’t want to speak about it. Lance refused to let Hunk feel guilty. His ache for the open sky had quadrupled since then, but he knew he’d needed it. His wings didn’t twitch so much now, only throbbed longingly, but it was a feeling he could bear.

He had draped himself dramatically over Hunk’s back and sent a wave of gratitude that his friend nudged at shyly. Shiro had passed by then and eyed Lance with a carefully sympathetic look.

He pretended not to see.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It had taken precisely four months after having met Hunk for a long-buried question to spring to the forefront of Lance’s mind. They’d been sitting in a close circle as Hunk prepared an off-color rendition of a key lime pie when it’d finally dawned on him.

_Was Shiro supernatural?_

 

He’d watched his elder carefully the next day. Hunk, at first glance, just seemed like every other kid, but when Lance looked closely, he could see the sizzling presence of his power as it crackled minutely across the larger child’s form. So, he figured Shiro had a tell too.

Lance watched Shiro for what seemed like years, but nothing otherworldly came into existence until a couple of hours in when Shiro’s dull, gray stone irises suddenly locked onto him.

It was a sudden gesture, like glancing at someone moving dynamically at is was documented by a sequence of camera clippings; just a series of choppy movements. The event had happened precisely like that.

Shiro did not turn his head, Lance had been too watching closely, he would have seen. His mentor wasn’t looking at him, and then he was. As simple as that.

Lance had nearly fallen out of his chair.

“Is something the matter? Do you require my assistance with a question?” Shiro inquired. Lance sputtered and gripped the rim of his stool tentatively.

“Hunk is different.” It wasn’t the way he’d meant to start, but the words had been out before Lance could stop them.

“Mhm.” Shiro said nothing more, as if he sensed Lance hadn’t finished.

“Are…you?” He squeaked.

It was quiet for a short moment, then Lance suddenly felt the air around him shift. Like how it felt before the first drop on a rollercoaster. Lance had to gather all his courage before he could raise his head to peer at Shiro.

The colors of a setting sun unfurled like smoke within his mentor’s irises.

Shiro’s scar reflected the state of his eyes, and where it ended, the trail of fire began. Thin lines fanned over Shiro’s skin like he’d been struck by lightning, and Lance watched the crimson lines pulse dully in time with his heartbeat.

The shadows around them seemed to bend towards his mentor, as if in want. They inched close to his being, but before their writhing tendrils could even brush against him, they danced away.

If Lance had been addressed by Shiro before he knew him, this sight would have frightened him down to the pits of his very soul. But all he could see was his teacher, a kind-hearted individual who even held reservations about bringing harm to a butterfly.

Lance hadn’t realized he was staring until Shiro blinked.

“Your eyes are pretty.” Lance said.

The elder only smiled and proceeded to uncase a row of shockingly sharp teeth.

 

Over the following days, Lance had tried to figure out Shiro’s age. And seeing how Shiro was, apparently, an immortal multidimensional demon, it was hard to nail a specific number down.

It’d been during a relatively slow day when Shiro had divulged he hadn’t even known the concept of numbers and time until he was, as he referred to, ‘the demonic equivalent of teenage years.’ He’d seemed embarrassed of that fact, but Lance had thought it was amazing, to just go about life without being weighed by the illusion of time.

Shiro had offered to show him his birthplace, but just staring into the elder’s eyes left Lance dizzy. He couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to wrap his head around an actual landscape.

His mentor remained in this demonic form, even while Hunk was over. The child didn't bat an eye when he’d wandered into Lance’s home one day to see a powerful demon guiding Lance through algebra problems. Although, if Lance’s parents were in the room, Shiro would shift back. After questioning, his mentor explained that humans had a much harder time grasping the details of his form, and Lance had grinned widely, happy to share in such a thing.

Sometimes, if Shiro were feeling incredibly lazy that day, Lance could always spot the crimson cracks under Shiro’s sleeves that he didn’t bother to hide. The demon would always smile that toothy grin of his when Lance subtlety pointed it out.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Lance was twelve when he’d found out about Altea.

It was an accident. Shiro had left his bag unattended during Lance’s lunch, and it was sprawled open near a heap of papers.

Lance meant to snap the latches of the bag shut- not to say he wasn’t curious, but he didn’t necessarily want to find out what happened when you angered a demon. But an object shone from within the bag, unhindered by the fact it was encased in the shadows of its carrier. Lance dragged It out to reveal a rather large book. It didn’t make sense how something so big could fit into Shiro’s relatively small messenger bag.

The book itself was donned with angular shining metals and pretty, curling words. There was an illustration on the front that snaked fluidly to the back. It was a wide landscape with flourishing trees, grass and flowers. The leaves on the trees were a shimmering gold that caught the sun when Lance angled the book just right.

There was a building on the far right that seemed to be made of light. It was a tall structure, with intricate designs that laced the outer casing. It was something you would only have the ability to see in a fantasy movie.

Lance thought the book may have been from the same genre, but as he cracked it open, he found it was structured like one of his history books. The pages were lined with characters Lance didn’t recognize- not even a hunt through google helped him- but Lance could read it. It wasn’t as well as the other languages he’d grasped over the years, but well enough to navigate through the gigantic book without giving himself a headache. ‘Altean History and Geography’ were the first characters he could distinguish since they were such a large font.

‘Altea’ was comprised of numerous magical beings. Lance tried to look for some form of category system, but there wasn’t one to be found. He tried not to feel too disappointed.

The start of the book was interesting enough. Characters of the unknown language ran through the rather impressive way of life people of Altea led. Everything was created by the people, for the people. It seemed like heaven on Earth, but Lance knew to only take that at face value.

He crossed several illustrations, most of what he believed were shops and citizens. Everyone had giant, dopey smiles on their faces, and Lance felt his own lips twitch.  Altea’s society was prosperous and harmonious, and Lance had eagerly read through the in-depth explanations, taking care to read the additional side margins. 

Lance realized the book must have been a part of a series because only after a few chapters, several names popped up without even a bit of explanation.

Twisted within the names was a tale of war, terror, the genocide of several species, and the planned annihilation of many more.

While the book had a problem explaining people, it didn’t have any reservations about detailing the dark themes of death. Millions had been killed in the unnamed war, and Lance had shuddered so hard it’d felt like he was going to vibrate right out of his skin.

There was a single character for the name of the killers, but it was blanked out. Not as if someone had come and scratched at it with a pen, but as if he were trying to glimpse the words through a thick glob of slime. Smudged wasn’t the right word, but it was close. It was as if he was peering into Shiro’s eyes again. He could interpret the characters, knew with every inch of his being he could, but something was adamant about stopping him from doing so. And when Lance had shifted, the blur shifted as well, as if alive. It unsettled him, but Lance kept turning the pages, had kept reading through all the following details of the carnage.

The ‘Death Era’ was what Lance had decided to call it because he _couldn’t_ _see_ the official name. The Era lasted for over ten thousand years, and Lance tried to picture what a world like that must have looked like towards the end.

_Could something like that ever end?_

He’d resigned himself not to think too hard on that because it pulled at and formed a multitude of questions he couldn’t even fathom the answers to.

Lance had been flipping through the pages for some time before he landed on a single page that made his stomach flip.

It was, admittedly, plainer than the preceding pages. Where the others were lined with intricate designs and gold trimming, this one was crude in its paneling, as if whoever printed the book couldn’t be bothered to flatter whoever was on this page.

Or, Lance thought they were supposed to be a person.

Their form was humanoid, but nothing about them gave even the barest notion that they were human.

Pale, leathery purple skin was pulled taut over their odd skeletal structure. Their eyes were a stark yellow, much like Shiro’s when he accidentally fell asleep with his eyes open, but comparing his mentor to whatever this was made Lance instantly feel guilty.

There was a bulge in the middle of his face that hinted at a nose, and his mouth just looked like skin pulled and scissored unevenly to rest on top of each other. A tiny, jaggedly cut silver plate was located a couple of centimeters under the picture and it displayed the first set of English words in the entire book so far.

‘Zarkon.’

The name sounded like something out of a comic book, and Lance would have laughed if he hadn’t felt like throwing up.

Nausea smacked into him like an unforgiving wave, but Lance couldn’t tear his eyes away from the creature. Even the most malevolent beasts had to be more morally grounded than this abomination because, as it turned out, Zarkon had singlehandedly orchestrated the Death Era- if the warped informational banner under their name was any indication.

Words were tucked under the crooked lines of the paneling, and Lance’s blood chilled in his veins as he read them.

‘Wanted’

Lance prayed to whatever higher beings there were that this book was outdated and they had caught the terrible being. He’d been ready to flip to the pages that detailed the appearance of Altea, but a shadow had fallen over him.

It was Shiro, and he looked alarmed where Lance thought there would only be fury.

The elder snatched the book from Lance’s hands and murmured something in a language that sounded like various voices whispering on top of one another before he tossed the book back into his bag as if it’d burned him.

Lance wanted to question him of its contents because there was a _world_ full of people who were different, just like him, and no one told him. Shiro contested before Lance could even construct a full sentence. The elder’s eyes shone so vibrantly that it made dark spots appear in Lance’s vision, and pinned Lance with a stare that made his skin crawl.

Shiro wasn’t just a little scared, he was absolutely terrified. It was the same look that overcame a small animal when it was cornered.

But Lance wasn’t any sort of prey. Shiro could easily snap him in two if he wanted.

_So what the hell had him shaken so badly?_

Lance wouldn’t find out why until approximately a year later.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Shiro no longer left his bag unattended, which left Lance to wonder if his mentor always had information about Altea on him, but he didn’t ask for fear of unsettling Shiro again.

Lance withheld an abundance of questions that arose from glimpsing the book, and he hoped the one he wanted to ask most didn’t have anything to do with it.

How did Shiro conceal himself?

Lance and Hunk were hunched together on the floor as Hunk led him through a set of practice chemistry tests. Shiro was in his demonic state and lounged on the couch with a casual book in hand. Chatter alerted them to Lance’s mother’s oncoming presence. He watched the crimson lines recede into Shiro’s skin, as the other oddities of his form followed suit. As soon as his mother passed, the vibrant colors returned, and Shiro didn’t even blink.

 _Could I do that?_ Lance thought and frowned at that fact he had never considered it. He glanced back to his wings and watched them as they raised slightly. He tried for several minutes- had imagined his wings receding until his vision went spotty around the edges.

Nothing.

He cast a look to his mentor, and as always, Shiro peered upwards as if sensing his gaze.

“How’d you do that?” Lance found himself asking. Shiro lowered his book and gave Lance an inquisitive stare. “Your marks. How do you make them go away?” Lance clarified.

“Ah,” Shiro breathed. The elder seemed to struggle for a few moments. “It’s my glamour. I can do it on my own, but it makes things easier.” Shiro explained, albeit hesitantly. Lance’s face had broken out into a grin, and he squealed.

“Can they work for me?” Lance leaped onto the couch and tucked himself into Shiro’s side. The demon watched him with a look Lance couldn’t place.

“Perhaps?” Shiro whispered. Lance’s eyebrows knitted together, and he tilted his head to fully regard Shiro with a confused look.

“What’s got you so excited sweetheart?” Lance’s mother’s voice had come out of nowhere, and the teen had squeaked in surprise. As he righted himself, he glanced over to see that Shiro’s markings were gone. He looked to his mother in time to catch his father’s figure as it rounded the corner.

“What’s happening?” He asked, and took a seat next to his mother.

“Shiro thinks that there’s something that can hide my wings like he can hide his eyes and junk!” Lance shrilled and clapped his hands excitedly.

“Calm down, Little Blue. We would need to send in a letter of registration before we could even consider hunting for one.” Shiro warned.

“Can we send a letter in then? What does a gleamer look like?” Lance asked rapidly and searched the tops of Shiro’s pockets for any sign of a lump.

“It’s glam-ore.” Shiro corrected lightly. He removed his arm from around Lance’s shoulder to fish through his back pocket. Lance had prepared himself for an object akin to the dazzling nature of Shiro’s eyes, not something that looked like a piece of chalk.

The ‘glamour’ was just a small chunk of crystal cut into a neat cylinder. It was a plain white color, and Lance could already feel his attention wane.

“That’s boring.” Lance admitted. Hunk let out a startled laugh, and Shiro chuckled.

“Yes, well, ‘boring’ doesn’t gain unwanted attention.” His mentor said. Lance held his hand out for it, but Shiro’s hand retreated, drawing the glamour back into his pocket. “This one is much too strong for you.” Lance had pouted but decided not to fight.

“You have reservations?” Lance’s mother suddenly questioned.

“The law hasn’t been in effect for quite some time. Not since the war, I believe,” Shiro responded. A soft grin stretched his lips as he welcomed Lance into his side once more. “Many laws from that time were abolished, but there were so many that some still linger, but are not followed- for obvious reasons,” Shiro continued and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve had many friends just like him who register and turn up approved, I’m sure Lance will have the same outcome.” Lance squealed happily and rolled out from under Shiro’s arm to tackle Hunk on the floor.

“Hold on, Lance. First, we need to get you into the queue.” Lance’s father warned softly. It didn’t stop Lance from throwing himself at his mother in glee. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Lance should probably have learned by that point to stop thinking that just because it was ‘supernatural’ didn’t mean it couldn’t be super boring. ‘Getting into the queue’ entailed a stack of documents that made Lance’s wrists lock up just from looking at it. But Lance’s father only snorted, and boasted about having already seen a stack of exam papers much larger.

His parents spent much of the night filling the sheets out, with a helpful hand from Shiro. Lance felt giddy, unable to settle himself long enough to fall asleep.

If this went well he could go to school, be with Hunk for most of the day, and _meet new people_.

Lance wandered downstairs when his parents had finally moved to their room. He found Shiro on the couch, gnawing a fountain pen with his sharp teeth. The elder wasn’t surprised to see him, stating that he knew Lance wouldn’t find sleep if his heart was beating so fast. Lance sat himself at the window, staring longingly at the stars.

He asked what Altea’s government was like since he’d missed out on that information.

From Shiro’s explanation, it was led by a group of beings who followed their own rendition of the constitution, and called themselves ‘The Elders.’

“So, like ‘Harry Potter’?” Lance had questioned.

Shiro had laughed- loud and melodic- and said,

“Something like that.”

Lance had laughed with him, and they’d spent the rest of the night imagining what ‘The Elders’ appeared as because not even with how old Shiro was, he didn’t know what they looked like either.

Lance fell asleep tucked into Shiro’s side.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The letter arrived a week later. It had been in a plain white envelope, and the only thing special about it was the maroon, intricately designed seal on the back. Lance gave the letter to Shiro, afraid he’d rip it along with the envelope, and joined Shiro and his parents on the couch. Hunk placed a supportive hand on his knee, and Lance grinned.

He bounced in his seat as Shiro ripped a clean tear into the top, pulling out several sheets of paper.

Shiro’s smile fell at an almost comical rate. The elder quickly stood, jostling Lance backward. His parents followed behind Shiro, and he lowered it to their sights. Lance glanced to Hunk warily. His friend joined him on the couch, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder as they exchanged glances.

He could see the analytical look in his mother’s eye, and the determined line of his father’s mouth.

“What is it?” Lance had asked, fed up with the suspense. No one answered him, so Lance shot up from his seat to get a glance for himself.

 

Not only had they refused to give him the glamour’s, the price of something called ‘glam-wraps’ were quadrupled for him. It was a price his parents would never be able to afford, not even with their combined salaries.

And all because he wasn’t born beyond the Altea Border.

“They didn’t even let him into the queue.” The shock bled into Shiro’s voice, and he even staggered back a few steps. “That _never_ happens.”

To say Shiro was simply angered would be an understatement. The older gentleman was positively _livid_. And then the event a year earlier had finally clicked.

Shiro hadn’t feared The Elders, or their threats. He had been afraid for Lance, a child who had been cast out from a society he didn’t even know about since birth, afraid that Lance would find out he didn’t fit anywhere, that people who were supposed to care for his wellbeing didn’t just because he wasn’t born on the opposite of some invisible line.

Fire poured from the opening of the elder’s mouth and licked at the document detailing Lance’s rejection. It was scary to see, especially when Shiro’s pupils suddenly vanished from existence. A second later his irises followed suit. In their place, the brightest yellow Lance had ever seen took its place. Through sight, it was as bright as the glow of Lances’ own wings. But in feeling, it rivaled the sun with its intensity.

When the paper turned to ash, Shiro’s fingers constricted into fists over the empty air, his knuckles cracked menacingly with each movement.

Lance watched as the remains strayed from the demon’s claws, and stained the carpet below. He’d been speechless as grief gripped his heart like a vice.

 

 

Lance learned on that day that not only did Hunk have a heart of gold, but he had enough snark to balance it out. If Lance had not been so caught up in his newfound dread, he would have tried to commit Hunk’s expression to memory.

As expected, his parents circled him with words of comfort.

“We will find a way around this.” His mother said it with enough conviction, but Lance couldn’t register the finality over the static in his head.

He went to bed early that night, laid on top of the covers, and let the chill of the night seep into his bones. When his bedroom door opened, Lance had already known who it was.

The shadows around him started to shift and coil around him as if engaged in play.

“Did I do something?” Lance whispered, and opened his eyes wide enough to catch a flash of volcanic irises.

“You didn’t do anything, Little Blue. I’ll figure this out.” The demon whispered. He laid next to him and Lance wasted no time in gluing himself to his mentor’s side.

Lance latched onto Shiro’s shirt, a series of gut-wrenching sobs wracked his frame as he clutched his hand over his mouth. It did nothing to quell the sound of the clipped hiccupping that erupted from his throat. His head started to hurt, and Lance didn’t know how much time passed, but Shiro was a nice anchor. He was warm, and his arms were strong around Lance’s back, the complete opposite of how Lance felt. His arms felt like noodles where they were trapped against Shiro’s chest, and he shivered so hard that Shiro had to move and wrap him in his blankets.

He fell asleep to the hypnotic sound of Shiro’s ancient lullabies.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Apparently, Shiro had several powerful connections within the sad excuse of a government, but not even that could help. Lance caught Shiro yelling more than once into his phone when Lance was supposed to be downstairs for lunch. Before that moment, Lance never thought anything could break Shiro’s calm demeanor.

He didn’t know what sort of punishment The Elders could instill on a multidimensional being, but Lance wasn’t going to find out. He was done watching the adults tear their hair out over something that hadn’t even mattered before now. He was done giving two shits about Altea.

“It’s okay.” Lance had said when they were grouped in the living room. Shiro, who had been glued to the phone for the weeks that passed, paused in his clipped speech to address Lance with a questioning gaze. His parents lowered a set of legal documents from their faces, expressions matching Shiro’s.

He’d been filled with so much hate and sorrow for the past weeks.

But he couldn’t let the feelings extend to them.

He couldn’t hate his family.

Couldn’t hate Shiro.

Couldn’t hate Hunk.

But he could hate himself.

He could hate The Elders and everyone in Altea.

He could hate his wings.

Because he couldn’t do anything with them. The only thing they ever succeeded in was causing him trouble, and shedding _everywhere_. Lance didn’t have the courage to try and cut them off, not only because of the pain but because he held a slight suspicion that they were tied to his life force.

So, Lance choked it down. Took all the anger, all his melancholy, stockpiled it and shoved them into the recesses of his mind. He hadn’t needed Altea before, and he’d resolved himself not to need them for the rest of his life.

 _I can do this,_ Lance thought.

Because there wasn’t a reason he couldn’t. His family loved him and supported him through it all. He had a wonderful friend, someone to talk about his problems to, someone who would break his need to follow the rules just to make Lance happy- if only for a little while. And he had a caring mentor, a person who must have met so many other beings during his long life who deserved his presence but chose Lance for a reason that was lost on him.

He could do this. He could take these feelings to his grave.

He had to.

So, he pleaded and begged his parents to stop. For Shiro not to run himself ragged expending things he didn’t need to, for Hunk not spend extra hours at night trying to look for loopholes through the vaguely threatening letter.

As long as his parents loved him, and as long as Shiro and Hunk still enjoyed his presence, he wouldn’t lose his grip.

 _He could_ do _this._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s on Lance’s eighteenth birthday when he realizes he can’t.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lance holds his breath, straining against the all too familiar burst of pain. He bows forward on instinct, and he immediately regrets it because now his entire back _burns_. There’s a flash of panic as Lance begins to think his breath will never return to him. A soft touch to the top knob of his spine sends Lance’s nerves reeling, and he blinks hard against the black spots that are suddenly at the corners of his vision. The touch guides him to his bed, and he’s afraid to follow because he is _absolutely_ _certain_ that if he moves now the pain will only get worse. But the hand doesn’t stop, just presses on through his meek attempt at physically protesting.

“Little Blue, what are you doing to yourself?” Shiro’s whispers, voice laced with worry, and Lance buries his guilt under a layer of irritation.

“What’re you doin’ here, Shiro?” Lance slurs, allowing the older gentleman to escort him back to his bed. He doesn’t even get a second to protest when Shiro snaps the bands of his makeshift wrap. “Hey! That was expensi-,”

“Where were you going, Lance?” Shiro suddenly asks. Lance stiffens as his wings unfurl, a feeling of unmatched relief leaking into his marrow. His feathers fan out towards Shiro as if thanking him.

Lance forces them down.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” He says stubbornly.

The glow of his wings has nothing on the fiery tones of Shiro’s eyes. Their light casts a hellish glow in his peripheral vision, and Lance does not have the mental strength to meet that gaze. “Where the hell would I go, Shiro?” Lance snaps through clenched teeth. Shiro hums his disapproval of his wording and sits on the edge of Lance’s bed. He peers at him then, albeit hesitantly.

Shiro’s gaze is unwavering, and Lance knows the older male won’t even blink now that he has Lance’s attention. A small mercy is granted when Lance sees that the fire in Shiro's eyes has settled into calming pools of mercury. He’s known Shiro long enough to know that the expression that crosses his face is born of sympathy.

“Lance, you know you can’t leave the house without-“

“’Without a fuckin’ guardian.’ I _know_ , Shiro.” Lance seethes, wanting nothing more than to curl under his blankets. But Shiro’s ancient gaze remains on him, so Lance knows it’s not the end.

“Lance-“

“Just _go away_ ,” The brunet murmurs. But Lance knows Shiro never leaves him when he gets like this.

He might hurt himself again.

Lance feels the flickering ambers of wrath lick at his chest, a feeling of something heavy and sick sits like a rock in his stomach. He hates that he makes Shiro worry like this- makes _everyone around him_ worry like this.

If he were younger, he would try to bury these feelings down, let them fester in the pits of his mind that weren’t after his immediate attention, but, as documented by his ever-attentive aunt, the scale of his unpredictability just went up a notch, and he would end up doing something even more dreadful than he originally planned. Which leads him back to square one.

It’s a reoccurring place for him to be.

“I wasn’t going anywhere.” Lance concedes. His anger washes out in sluggish increments, and Lance sags as it leaves him hollow. He hears more than feels his wings as they close around his shoulders. Shiro is suddenly right next to him, and Lance relaxes against the familiar warmth that radiates off him. A strong arm winds itself around the small of Lance’s back, and Lance leans into Shiro’s side, greedily soaking in his heat.

“Then what were you doing?” The elder asks.

But Lance knows Shiro has caught on if the way his lips thin in apprehension are anything to go by. He’s in his right mind enough to be mildly embarrassed, but not enough to try and stop himself from saying,

“If they suffocate then maybe they’ll just fall off.”

He hears Shiro’s sharp intake of breath.

“ _Jesus_ , Lance.” He hisses.

Lance knows he’s lost all his wraps for at least two months.

“Thou shall not invoke the Lord's name in vain.” Lance whispers. Shiro snorts, but it’s clipped and winded.

“You’re evading.” The elder states plainly. Lance doesn’t respond and locks his glare to his lap. He knows his voluntary silence won’t last long. With Shiro’s age comes a lengthy patience gauge, he will sit with Lance for an entire day if that is what it takes.

And he has done this.

“Can we talk about this later, Shiro?” Lance gathers enough strength to meet Shiro’s waiting gaze. The elder regards him for a long moment, and Lance watches the fire pulse dully behind the stone of Shiro’s irises.

“We will talk about this later.” The raven’s tone holds no room for argument, and Lance knows he’s not going to be able to ‘sweet talk’ his way out of this.

“Well, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s oversharing.” Lance jokes, but his try for humor plummets to the floor and twitches in death. Shiro smiles anyway, albeit wearily. He regards Lance with a searching gaze, and Lance watches ancient power ripple around the edges of Shiro’s sharpening pupils.

“Let’s go down to the party, Little Blue. It is yours, after all.” Shiro sings more than says. In the thrall of that tone, Lance is on his feet before he can even think, and Shiro casts him a look that’s akin to guilt. Lance waves him off, knowing Shiro would never use his powerful influence on him on purpose. He searches the dresser for his top, and is surprised to see its been misplaced. Lance makes a confused sound and turns to survey his bed, but a tap to his shoulder stops him. A light blue sweater is in Shiro’s claws, and Lance sighs as he takes it. He folds his wings, ignoring the way they rustle noisily. It’s hard pressing them so close to his back because of recent events, but this pain is much more tolerable. As he’s arranging the sweater to ready it to go over his head, Shiro’s hand is on the back of his neck. Lance freezes, casting an inquiring look to his mentor. Shiro’s mouth is in a grim line, and Lance immediately feels the plucking. He looks away as Shiro tries to maneuver something into his line of sight, but he doesn’t have to look to know what it is. Lance’s breath shakes, and he hugs the sweater to his face- so close to tugging it over his eyes like a child.

But Lance catches it in his peripheral.

“Lance.” Shiro’s voice is deeper now, the sound of countless whispers overlapping his voice like a soft breeze. Nowhere to escape, Lance reluctantly glances down to Shiro’s open palm.

His feathers are in Shiro’s hand, and Lance is ready to joke over the fact Shiro is making such a big deal over them, but then he sees it.

The blood.

It coats Shiro’s fingers, douses them in the sharp smell of metal. His feathers drip with the dark, crimson liquid. He watches small orbs of blood prick the ground, filling the unnatural silence. Then Lance feels it, like phantom bugs crawling down the expanse of his back. He knows there must be a couple trails of blood there, and Lance snaps his back straight on instinct, wings shuffling at the quick movement. He blinks rapidly as a white-hot pain blackens his vision for a short moment. Declarations of this are completely out of the question, not if this is going to end in Lance’s favor.

He coughs to disguise the gag, but it only jostles his wings more.

“Looks like that’s not the proper way to molt.” Lance jokes with a meek smile.

The room is silent, like Shiro.

The elder’s irises are so bright Lance is worried they will begin to leak fire. “You aren’t going to laserbeam me in the face, are you?” Lance asks, offering a shaky laugh.

Shiro’s face doesn’t move, and Lance worries that he’s just seen Shiro’s left eye twitch.

Lance gingerly removes the feathers from the elder’s palm. Shiro doesn’t move, but his unblinking gaze tracks Lance relentlessly. He slowly makes his way to the bathroom, desperately trying to ignore the implications as to why Shiro only allows his gaze to leave Lance so it can fall to his bloodied palm.

Lance washes the feathers until the water fades from red to pink, and back to clear again. Jars are lined in the cupboard located under the sink, and Lance adds the new additions, not missing how dull the feathers lights are compared to the rest.

The pain in his backbone makes it hard to rise to his feet again, and Lance has to secure a hold on the counter before he can steady himself. When Lance glances up, he isn’t surprised to see Shiro stands in the threshold. The demon has a full outfit in his arms, and Lance blanches.

“If I change clothes mama’s gonna know I was up here.” Lance says as he steps closer to the door. He reaches for the sweater- and only the sweater- but Shiro steps back, mouth setting into a deeper frown.

“I’m telling your parents-“

“Shiro _don’t_.” Lance pleads.

“You’re bleeding. I can’t keep this from them.” Shiro murmurs. Lance huffs, the beginnings of irritation poking the forefront of his mind.

“I didn’t expect-“

“You expected something and that’s enough. That patch looked near death, Lance. Have you not seen the extent of your damage? You’ve drawn your steps,” Shiro snaps. Lance blinks owlishly, having never expected Shiro to use that tone of voice on him. The last sentence confuses him, and he sends Shiro a helpless look. The demon points to the floor, eyebrows drawn together in the face of Lance’s obliviousness.

A startling amount of blood tracks to the bathroom in a collection of drip and splash patterns. Lance pales, meeting Shiro’s stare nervously. The demon’s expression is sympathetic, all traces of anger draining out as his shoulders sag.

“I’m sorry. I have to tell them.” Shiro turns on his heel, and Lance feels his heart squeeze painfully. He shoots forward without thinking, and slips on the small puddle of blood that he neglected to realize had gathered at his feet. The impact is painful- more painful than anything ever has the right to be. He can’t even pinpoint the worse of it because _everything_ _hurts_.

Lance doesn’t grasp he’s screaming until he registers the warmth of Shiro’s hands on him. He curled into a ball sometime during his small blackout, and Shiro is trying to coax him out of it, to tell him where it hurts, but Lance doesn’t have the mental capacity to respond. He can hear Shiro’s retreat, no doubt going to gather his parents, but Lance flails, managing to grab Shiro’s ankle out of pure luck.

Shiro’s eyes are clouded with concern.

“Please? I won’t do it again. _I swear._ Please?” Lance knows he looks pathetic, on his knees covered in his own blood, with tears staining his cheeks.

He can barely handle Shiro’s constant concern. If Hunk and his parents get involved, Lance doesn’t know if he could survive the onslaught of emotions it would no doubt bring.

 

Shiro regards him for a long moment, and Lance feels out of place in the sudden stillness of the room. Silence keens in Lance’s ears, and he notices that Shiro is as lifeless as a statue. The only signs of his sentience are the way his eyes move minutely as they search Lance for an answer he’s afraid he can’t give.

Shiro sighs and Lance feels dizzy with relief.

He’s instructed to sit on the toilet while Shiro retrieves the first aid kit.

Lance tugs at the material of his jeans, hearing the faint pitter-patter of blood as it continues to hit the tile. Shiro isn’t gone for more than ten seconds before Lance feels hands on the bone of his wings.

The silence is filled with Shiro’s miffed growling- which is one way to describe the sound Shiro is making. Another comparison could be the low rattle of a prowling xenomorph. The comparison makes laughter bubble in Lance’s throat, but he meets Shiro’s volcanic stare in the mirror and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“I’m sorry.” He offers weakly, wringing his hands in his lap. Shiro doesn’t respond, but the rhythm of his hands doesn’t falter so Lance counts it as a win.

A washcloth is being taken to the blood when Shiro decides to speak up.

“I don’t want you to apologize.” Shiro whispers as he dabs the fresh wound.

Lance wrings his hands, gaze flickering between his knees and the mirror.

“What do you want me to say?” He asks.

Shiro sighs deeply.

“Nothing, Little Blue. I just wish,” Shiro quiets for a moment, plucking a few loose feathers and massaging the tops of Lance’s shoulders.

He takes a long, shaky breath, and Lance hates how distraught it sounds.

“I wish I could do more.” Shiro murmurs.

Lance frowns.

“You already do a lot.” He says. There’s more he wants to share because lord knows Shiro deserves every ounce of gratitude Lance can give, but the thoughts are lost as Shiro taps the crown of his head.

“We’ll talk after the party, alright?” Shiro whispers.

Lance sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, worrying it between his teeth as he nods.

The silence that follows is comfortable, and the ever-nagging cloud of dread drifts onto the outskirts of their conversations. Shiro’s hand's fiddle over him with grace, a steady hand he’s no doubt picked up from his long life.

The sound of wrapping gauze and the smell of sterile disinfectant is something Lance has come to familiarize himself with. It brings him back to the days he would spend trying to throw himself off the banister just to see if his wings could catch him.

Sometimes they didn’t.

Despite the constant injuries, and the terribly long lectures that followed, the days of his earlier youth are something he will always cherish.   

Lance is off the toilet bowl in minutes, and he dusts off his jeans, frowning at the blood he can feel crusting at his feet.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to change your pants, Little Bird,” Shiro’s voice echoes slightly off the tiles, and Lance groans. “None of that,” He reprimands lightly. “I’ll tell your folks you had another accident, alright?” Lance turns to give Shiro a wide smile, disregarding the paternal look as best as he can.

“Thanks, Shiro. You’re a lifesaver!” Lance says and grabs the damp washcloth Shiro offers him.

They step into his room as Lance bounces, trying to scrub the drying blood from off his heel. Shiro gives an amused huff, shaking his head as he shifts the curtain to his window. A breeze drifts between the slit of cloth, and Lance can pick up the chatter of his relatives amongst the whistle of wind.

Shiro hums thoughtfully, and Lance slips on his shirt, tentatively hovering behind Shiro to get a glimpse of the backyard.

Shiro tuts. “Ah, ah! No, you don’t.” He says, batting Lance away as if he were a fly on the wall. The brunet pouts, but it only lasts a second before he’s excited.

“What did I get this year? Huh, Shiro? Tell me! _Tell me!_ ” He begs, latching onto Shiro’s wide bicep. The elder only snorts, dragging Lance with him as he steps away from the window to let the curtain fall.

It’s a bit morbid, talking about birthday presents whilst stepping over small puddles of blood, but Lance has lived this scenario and hundred times, and he may live through a hundred more of them.

He’s seen what the “norm” is in movies. At this point of vulnerability, having another presence so close should feel akin to a needle dragging down your back. And that it should be hard, to bounce back so fast into something presentable just as you’d been nothing but a broken, bloodied little thing on the floor. Or maybe it is the norm, to pick yourself up from the ground and pretend nothing is wrong an instant later. He just can’t tell how a “normal” situation should play out. Countless sources form the internet have told him experience is the best teacher, but there’s not much experience to be had when you’ve barely gone past the street corner.

Lance throws his sweater jacket over his shoulders, going to work on slanting his wings against his back as much as he can.

“Did I get a bike?” Lance questions as he struggles to get his foot into the leg of his jeans.

“You already have a bike.” Shiro remarks. Lance rolls his eyes.

“A better bike.”

“It only wilted because you refused to keep using it,” Shiro responds coolly. The elder sinks onto Lance’s bed, sending him another amused look when Lance almost slips on a drying spot on the hardwood. “Careful,” He warns but makes no move to help Lance as he crashes to the floor. “I told you to be careful.”

Lance grumbles but takes the opportunity to stuff his legs into his jeans.

“That one can’t handle turns,” Lance says, bouncing off the floor with one strong push of his wings. His back screams in protest, but Lance ignores it. He also ignores the concerned look Shiro casts him. “I’m fine, Lava Man,” He teases as he shrugs on his sweater jacket, zipping it up.

Shiro bristles at the nickname. “Hey, if you get to call me Blue Bird, I get to call you Lava Man!” Lance sticks his tongue out when Shiro’s expression only darkens.

“Blue Bird is _cute_. Lava Man is devoid of creativity,” Shiro snaps without venom. “And it sounds like a rejected superhero.” He tacks on in a whisper.

Lance catches it anyways and snorts. “Blue Bird sounds like Big Bird. And that thing has feathers! I have feathers! I will not be compared to that thing!”

“Big Bird is cute!” Shiro yells, seeming to be genuinely insulted at Lance’s insinuation.

“I love that show, okay! It’s doing some great things, but you do not have to lie to my face and say that giant, yellow _thing_ is cute.” Lance snaps, puckering his lips in distaste.

Shiro’s mouth is open in a silent gasp, eyeing Lance up and down in astonishment. Lance chucks his discarded jeans at the elder, which Shiro dodges without breaking eye contact.

A moment of silence falls between them before laughter erupts.

Shiro gathers himself from the bed, folding and stashing Lance’s pants in a bottom drawer to be collected later.

“Let’s go down before anyone notices you’re gone, _Blue Bird_.”

Lance groans.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“Holy crow, they went all out, didn’t they?” Lance murmurs in awe. Shiro hums his response, eyes cast to the front door. Lance grins as he takes note of the extent of the overzealous decorating.

Even portions of the house that no one should even have any business in are dressed to the nines.

The decorations are extravagant, and Lance expects nothing less from his parents. He rubs the blue silk material that snakes around the pillars of the foyer with a small grin.  A glance upwards has Lance’s eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. A large net is fastened to the ceiling, a wide range of color varying blue balloons in their clutches. He sputters in surprise, turning his head to Shiro, who immediately shoots a finger to his lips.

“It’s a good thing no one saw you come in. She thinks you’re out in the front yard where you’re _supposed_ to be.” Shiro says, tutting at the pout Lance is weak to hold in. He bounds back in an instant, dark, oceanic eyes lighting in unabashed joy.

“What does the living room look like?” Lance asks excitedly, teetering on his toes to start the short trek. Shiro’s fingers are in the neck of his sweater before he can even take a step forward. Lance whines, feet dragging as he follows Shiro to the front door.

The elder opens the large door without a sound, and they slip through the gap as deftly as possible. It’s shut with a soft click, and Shiro sighs. Lance gives the elder an inquiring stare, frowning when Shiro doesn’t even cast him one glance.

“Hello, Hunk. You’re early.” He shouts without turning. Lance whips his head to the side, grinning when he spots his best friend sauntering up the walkway.

Hunk gives a joyful wave, a colorfully wrapped box in hand. Lance yips, shooting down the steps and into his friend’s one free arm.

“Is that for me?” Lance squeals happily.

Hunk rolls his eyes.

“No, it’s for Shiro,” He says sarcastically and grins at Lance’s faux pout. “Happy Birthday, man!” Hunk gives a hefty pat to Lance’s shoulder, which sends him spiraling forward a bit. He coughs out a laugh, gritting his teeth against the twinge of pain that shoots from his back. He tries to slap the feeling away, but he knows he’s failed when Hunk’s smile falls. He shoots Shiro a worried glance, and the elder’s mouth is in a grim line. “How bad was it?” He asks urgently.

Lance wants to be angry. It was _his_ pain. He’s the only one who experienced it. But he’s been given chances to be truthful before, and it’s clear he can’t trust himself to be honest with, well, himself.

As long as he doesn’t think about it for too long, there’s nothing to be guilty about.

“It was bad.” Shiro responds in a short breath. His voice is tired. The type of tired that’s deeper than bone and marrow. The type that leaks into the soul and decays it from the inside out.

Lance flexes his wrists, hearing the joints pop noisily. He glues his gaze to the ground, choosing to focus on the passing breeze.

There’s a sort of knock on the metaphysical door of his brain, and Lance is hesitant to answer it. The knock is only a tad more persistent, and the door slams open as if it were made of straw. A wind of calm snakes across Lance’s mind and he doesn’t miss the undertones of concern. Lance doesn’t lean away when Hunk curtains his shoulders with an arm. The calming sensation passes through every inch of vein, and Lance welcomes it, knowing that this is only Hunk encircling him, and not the influence of his power.

“I’m here, buddy.” Hunk says, and the calm roars. It gives him enough confidence to meet Hunk’s gaze.

“I might recommend the medication again, Lance.” Shiro suddenly says. Lance jolts, feeling an uncomfortable tug when the calming wave falters. He meets his mentor’s calculating gaze, and from the way his eyebrows pinch, he feels just as distraught as Lance feels.

“You promised you wouldn’t—“

“I won’t. But if I recommend it, they’ll know something is happening,” Shiro gives him a knowing look. “And you’ll be able to give me something to tell them, right?” Lance hunches his shoulders, but Hunk’s hold remains strong.

“Yeah,” He says reluctantly.

Lance can feel a sort of questioning tug from Hunk, and he sends back his unfiltered apprehension.

The prying ceases instantly.

Shiro’s light footfalls trail down the steps, and Lance forces himself to look up. He offers the elder a weak smile. “Talk to you later?” He asks. Shiro grins, but it’s tight at the corners, and Lance can see the slight twitch. Shiro places a heavy hand on Lance’s shoulder and squeezes affectionately before he’s turning on his heel. Lance notices that his present is now in Shiro’s arms. He’s ready to ask where he’s going with it, but Shiro pauses before he can even open his mouth, casting a raw look of worry over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you soon, Little Blue.”

They watch the demon disappear around the house, and Lance catches Hunk turn his head to him.

“So, I have someone I want you to meet!” Hunk says cheerfully.

Lance frowns, switching gears, and steps away from his friend to send him a wary glance.

“Someone?” He repeats. Hunk nods, not seeming to mind Lance’s distrust.

“I know how you never really wanted to go to anyone’s house because they lived too far away! And this friend is going to be moving right across the street, see?” Hunk turns fully, and Lance follows the movement with his eyes before he follows suit. They walk a little toward the end of the walkway so as to see past the bushes.

Across the street, a single house down is a moving truck. Lance doesn’t know how he missed it. He’s always been suspicious of any sort of large transportation vehicle and makes sure to keep track of them.

“Is that the friend?” Lance asks, only stepping closer when Hunk does.

“Yup! His name is Keith! He’s not magical, but he’s cool people.” Hunk says. His nose suddenly scrunches up, and Lance watches the expression curiously. “He can get as excitable as Pidge, though.”

Lance perks up at the name.

“Pigeon! The android!” Lance exclaims.

Hunk laughs, a patient smile on his lips.

“No, Lance. It’s _Pidge_. She works on computers, she isn’t one.” Hunk explains.

Lance tilts his head in confusion, but nods.

“I like mine better.” He whispers.

Hunk snorts.

“I think Pidge would too.” He says underneath his breath. Hunk clears his throat, garnering Lance’s attention. “Wanna say ‘Hello?’”

Lance purses his lips. He shrugs after a second.

Hunk grins as if Lance had given him the world’s cutest puppy. It’s strange, Lance knows he hasn’t done anything special.

They take care crossing the street, and they’re at the house before Lance can prepare himself. He wants to backtrack, but Hunk’s grip is strong in his.

His wings flutter almost violently against his back, and Lance notices it takes him longer to calm them down. He opens his mouth, ready to take the out his additions have given him, but one glance to Hunk’s face makes his mouth snap shut.

Hunk looks elated.

Lance breathes a sigh, clamping down on his nervousness before his friend can sense it.

They’re at the edge of the driveway now, and he can see that one of the garage doors are open. A mud caked truck is parked haphazardly in the middle of the driveway, and fresh tracks of wet dirt snake up the pavement.  Lance can’t even tell what the original color of the car is, and he can’t focus a single thought on it because Hunk is shouting.

“Keith! You in there?” Lance jumps, shuffling behind Hunk as a yelp of surprise is heard from what Lance presumes is the garage. His wings are starting to ruffle audibly, and Hunk peers over his shoulder at him, a question in his furrowed expression. Lance feels his own emotions stumble to present themselves.

He squeezes Hunk’s hand, and a staggering feeling of calm smacks into the tidal wave of his roaring emotions. His shoulders deflate comically fast, and Lance sends Hunk a grateful smile.

The piercing sound of tools smacking together drowns out the fluttering bird’s overhead, and Hunk gives the dark garage an amused look.

“Hey, Hunk.” The voice is cold, and Lance flinches, shifting to hide behind Hunk a little more. His wings don’t startle, which is odd, but he’ll take small blessings.

There’s more shuffling, more clanging, before someone emerges.

Despite the harshness of the stranger’s tone, his face is calm and open. Dark, strangely colored irises glance back at them, and Lance quickly notes everything about them is a little odd. He’s never seen someone covered in so many dark smudges in real life before. It’s only ever been a reoccurrence to him in videogames, and that was only because a dragon had breathed onto the main character and covered them in soot and ash.

 _Humans don’t know dragons exist_ , Lance’s mind supplies helpfully.

Aside from the dirt and grime, this person is dressed in a bland, maroon shirt, and dark jeans. The attire is ripped at odd places, littered with an assortment of differently colored stains. Their sneakers aren’t in any better shape, and Lance figures the black dirt doesn’t have anything to do with their condition. Jet black hair curls around their face, cheeks, ears and the furthest reach of his neck. The style isn’t something Lance has familiarized himself with, but he guesses it’s a sort of mullet.

_What the cheese?_

Hunk lightly nudges his stomach, and Lance realizes he’s said it out loud.

The stranger doesn’t hear it, thankfully.

 “Hey, Keith! I thought you were further down the road!” Hunk says cheerfully but doesn’t move from his spot to hug Keith.

_Weird._

“Yeah. My folks told me the wrong numbers,” Keith’s voice sounds distant, even as he stares straight at them.

_Rude?_

“I didn’t think you lived on this side of town.” Keith says, turning to the side to discard a disgusting washcloth that was drawn from Lance’s sight. It’s tossed into the open trunk of the pickup, and Lance notices everything in there is filthy. He finds himself shrinking away from it.

_Washing sweaters is difficult, okay?_

“I don’t!” Hunk begins, uninhibited by the stranger’s aloof tone. “I always come over on this side to visit my friend, Lance! It’s his birthday today.” Hunk encloses his large hand on Lance’s forearm, prying him from behind his back. Lance shoots him a desperate look.

_Hunk, don’t you dare!_

He tries conveying this thought with a look, but Hunk is nothing but annoyingly supportive.

Lance draws his gaze forward, only to be met with Keith’s piercing eyes.

“Hey, I’m Keith.” He doesn’t move to initiate a handshake, nor a hug.     

 _Weird. So_ Weird _._

Lance doesn’t move either, and when he doesn’t speak Keith raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything.

Lance wants to back away and run, but he knows enough to grasp that _he’d_ be the weird one then.

Something is supposed to be happening here, Lance knows it.

_What am I supposed to do?_

The only people he’s ever had to interact with have known him all his life. And, sure, maybe he’d met strangers in his youth, but those memories are fleeting and _very_ few.

Child to adult, child to teen, these interactions are different, he knows this. He’s an uncle, okay. He can talk to little kids and speak to the parents attached to them.

But right now, it’s teen to teen. And sure, some of his cousins are either his age, or closely surrounding it, but now Lance can see they’ve molded themselves to his behavior and speech patterns. They don’t make him draw blanks like this one does.

_What do I reference for this?_

Movie teenagers aren’t an actual depiction— every single adult in his life has informed him of this. He’s even been told that most of the time the actors aren’t even _teens_. Which upon itself is weird because teen should play teens.

Lance will never understand society.

Lance will never understand humans.

More specifically, _this_ human.

Who still hasn’t said a damn thing. And Lance knows it’s been a long time, he can get stuck in his own head a lot, and for lengthy amounts of time.

Keith stares at Lance as if sizing him up, but Lance remains unintimidated. This person’s gaze has nothing on Shiro’s.

At least that’s one thing he can say confidently in this moment.

Hunk doesn’t help him at all, and Lance has an inkling as to why. He clearly needs more interaction with people, and what better than to start now? Especially with a stranger that continues to defeat the norm in ways a documentary would never be able to explain.

Keith continues to stare at him, face covered like they’d gone and ducked their head into a vat of ink and set themselves out to dry.

“I-I’m Lance.” He says shakily.

The person only tilts their head a fraction, gaze becoming more scrutinizing.

An emotion snakes itself up Lance’s spine, and he marks its name effortlessly.

Embarrassment.

_Oh cheese, Shiro, please come help me._

It’s a fruitless plea, Shiro is watching and has already deemed this situation all for Lance to deal with. In the back of his mind, he knows he’s going to get an earful of demon’s laugh when he gets back home. Or, at the very least, a long moment of amused staring.

He knows it’ll be the latter.

“C’mon, Keith! I’ve told you about Lance tons of times!” Hunk tosses his arms over Lance’s shoulder, pulling the teen into his warmth. Keith’s other eyebrow shoots up, setting off a surprised expression Lance isn’t sure he likes.

 _If someone tells you about someone, isn’t it courteous to remember them?_ Lance wants to back away from this conversation and pretend it never happened because this is way off his radar of capabilities.

He’s never been an antisocial person, in fact, he loves meeting new people— wings aside. But Keith is so bizarre. He doesn’t act how he should, and Lance wishes he had been prepared for it.

“Have you?” Keith says, scrunching up his nose as if he’d tasted a lemon. “I don’t remember.” He says with thinly veiled disinterest.

Hunk looks hurt, and Lance decides he does _not_ like Keith.

Lance doesn’t even bother with disguising his bothered tone as he levels Keith with a deadly stare and says, “I want to leave.”

Hunk sputters, and Lance can feel the sharp tang of surprise on his tongue. Keith scowls, matching Lance’s displeasure as if _he_ were the one to have been insulted.

_‘Cool people,’ my left butt cheek._

Lance scoffs and turns on his heel, staggering back when Hunk refuses to move.

He turns his head, ready to send Hunk the largest wave of anger to have ever brewed from him, but he catches the silent conversation passing between Hunk and Keith.

It’s only a second before something akin to guilt passes over Keith’s features, and Lance finds the piercing gaze on him. He shrinks back, not at all prepared for the sudden vulnerability.

“Keith. I think I gave you my flashlight yesterday, could you go get it for me?” Lance can pick up the insistence in Hunk’s tone, and the not so subtle glances to Lance.

Keith and Lance share a look of confusion, but soon Keith’s expression changes, and Lance is left in the dark.

“O-oh! Yeah, of course.” Keith stutters out. He rubs his hands together, and Lance can just _hear_ the sound of dirt dragging on skin.

It’s gross.

Beyond gross.

And his legs are getting tired.

Lance can say without a single doubt that this meeting has sucked so far.

 

Hunk holds the door open for him as he steps through the front door’s threshold. Keith doesn’t pause to remove his shoes, and Lance doesn’t want to walk in any further because what kind of household doesn’t take their shoes off when they enter the house?

He takes a step back before Hunk places a large hand in between his shoulder blades. Lance is pushed forward, and he groans. Hunk tuts at him, kicking off his shoes. Lance follows suit.

The foyer is nearly identical to his, but it’s painfully bare, which is to be expected.

_These people have just moved in, of course there wouldn’t any sort or ornamentation yet._

But the further they walk in, Lance can only conjure up one word for Keith’s home.

Alive.

A television plays noisily in the background, and Lance can hear running water from somewhere in the house. Even as he walks down the hall, he can hear someone bustling about in a room ahead. Several hues of yellow and brown are reoccurring in the house’s apparel. It’s warm, like drinking a nice steaming mug of hot chocolate after playing out in the falling snow. As they travel further, the colors of autumn become a recurring theme. 

Lance’s house is alive too, but not like this. There’s warmth in every inch of the house, the shadows don’t writhe, and the air breathes life. All the windows are open, which is a little gross because _bugs_. When the windows are ever open in his house, there’s a thick curtain in front of it to blur what’s inside— the “what” being _him_ , so there’s no way to just casually peer outside whenever he wants.

 

Lance follows Keith into what he assumes is the living room.

The curtains ruffle in the wind, and they create a hypnotizing rolling motion when an exceptionally strong gust blows in.

When the wind cuts into his home, all the curtains ever do is give a sort of pathetic shift.

 

Everything is so different, so _open_ compared to his own home, it makes Lance feel tight in his skin.

He draws away from the scene, drifting from the yellow sunlight that slants in.

 

As expected, someone sits on a couch, surrounded by numerous cardboard boxes. The person is muscular and rugged. Stubble marks a pale chin, and Lance notices Keith shares this person’s skin tone. Their short, black hair is tied into a tiny ponytail, and their eyebrows are heavyset, like Hunk’s.

Keith has no doubt mirrored this person in some way, and Lance thinks they’re either a parent or someone closely related.

They suddenly stop flicking through the channels and turns their head to give them a surprised look.

“Oh, well, hey there! I didn’t hear ya come in,” They say. The deep baritone of their voice is calming, and Lance thinks he can hear a bit of a southern accent. Their smile is welcoming, and they stand with a grunt. “I recognize one of you, but I don’t think I’ve met this one,” They encroach on Lance’s position in only two strides, and Lance can see that they’re practically Shiro’s height. “Heya! I’m Keith’s father, you can call me Mr. Kogane,” He holds his hand out, and Lance gingerly presses his palm to theirs.

The hand is dry and calloused, and Lance has to bite back a yelp at the strength their grip possesses. “My, my, you’ve got a sweet grip there.” Mr. Kogane says with a hearty laugh.

_Sweet grip? Am I squeezing too hard?_

Mr. Kogane starts to laugh again, and Lance thinks he’s been quiet for too long again. “Don’t look like that, I’m not gonna bite ya, son!” Mr. Kogane pats Lance’s shoulders and smiles at him like they’ve known each other since forever. Their tone is nothing but patient as they ask, “Do ya got a name, son?”

Lance jumps, and nods.

“I’m Lance.” He says, hoping his voice doesn’t betray his apprehension.

Mr. Kogane cups the bottom of his chin, his thumb rubbing against the corner of his lips in a thoughtful gesture.

“Hm, not sure I know a Lance.” Mr. Kogane smiles that strange, friendly smile again. “Are you in a different graduating class?” He questions.

Lance opens his mouth to respond but Hunk, thankfully, intervenes.

“You wouldn’t know him, he was homeschooled.” Hunk tosses an arm across Lance’s shoulders. “I just wanted to introduce him to Keith since Lance is just across the street.” He finishes.

Mr. Kogane nods in understanding.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet ya, Lance. Whenever you want to come over, just walk right on in! Someone will always be here to greet you!” Mr. Kogane says with another warm laugh. The feeling is infectious, and Lance finds himself smiling too.

“It’s really nice to meet you too, Mr. Kogane. And thank you.” Lance says with a small bow. It’s something he picked up from both his parents and Shiro along the way.

Mr. Kogane blinks in surprise, but the look is gone in an instant.

“You always keep an interesting bunch, don’t ya, my boy.” Mr. Kogane says amusedly. Lance quirks an eyebrow but holds his questions in because they’ve started to move again. He gives Mr. Kogane a short wave, which the other responds with a smile.

When he glances back, Keith is peering over their shoulder at him. Lance feels his mouth twitch when Keith turns back with a quiet scoff.

_Excuse me?_

Lance sends Hunk a pointed stare, but his friend is deliberately avoiding his gaze.

“If he’s getting your flashlight, then why do we all have to go? Why couldn’t we stay with Mr. Kogane? He’s actually _nice_.” Lance snaps, leaning forward to allow Keith to hear. He thinks his brisk tone is what causes Keith to flinch, and he has half a mind to stick his tongue out for good measure.

Hunk doesn’t offer words, but he does give a light pat to Lance’s shoulder. There isn’t any sort of emotion tacked onto the gesture, and it makes Lance glance to Hunk, puzzled.

“Uh, we’re here.” Keith is standing outside a door that is surprisingly bare. Lance had thought there would be something to indicate the oddness of its owner. As Keith twists the doorknob, he gives Lance a side-glance, and Lance frowns. Keith throws open the door and Lance is hit with the distinct smell of nature. It's woodsy and fresh, like the mist of air near a waterfall. He would say it's exhilarating, but that only lasts for a second before he steps through the threshold.

 Lance has learned that everything in the room has a place, but it seems Keith has not learned this.

Papers, clothes, and several objects Lance has never seen before are strewn across the floor. The air of the room is stale from the small piles of, no doubt, old laundry. The forest scent is still there, but now there's the smell of wet bark thrown in that tips the scales in a way Lance isn't sure he likes.

_Didn’t he just move in?_

Hunk doesn’t seem to mind the mess as he steps over unnamable objects. Lance stays at the threshold, eyes wide as he regards the state of the room. _But_ , Lance supposes, _it’s fitting_. So far, Keith has showcased he’s a messy person who doesn’t mind disorganization.

Lance is already getting used to the spontaneous bout of new information, and he wonders if there are people just as odd as Keith.

The walls are covered in several posters of space, and it immediately captures Lance’s interest. He steps into the room, fully intending to investigate them thoroughly, but something long and thin catches in his peripheral.

On the right wall, there are numerous papers tacked onto the wall. Some of them are pictures detailing a grotesque, insect-like creature. Its head is as misshapen as its body, with long, sickeningly thin arms that extend from its sides. The face is grumpy, wrinkled, and unmistakably otherworldly. The mouth is open wide, revealing several rows of sharp teeth. Its eyes are dark, matching the inky black of its leathery skin.

What seems to stick out is the striking color of its wings.

Blue.

Like Lance’s own.

It’s unsettling to see the same shade of blue on such a terrifying creature. His only saving grace is the fact that it has fairy wings.

Broken, fleshy fairy wings.

“That’s the Blue Fairy.” It’s Keith’s voice, and it takes everything Lance has not to screech.

“Blue fairy?” He inquires, sending Keith a bored stare despite his curiosity.

Keith nods, subdued. But Lance can see the twinkle in his eyes, the barely restrained grin on his lips.

“It’s kind of like a more magical, grounds keeping Snow White,” Keith scowls at the picture. “I don’t think they look like that, though,” He murmurs. “They grow the flowers and help tend to the animals. They’re probably the most peaceful beings I’ve ever researched.

“The Blue fairy just sounds like normal fairy folk.” Lance remarks with a shrug. Keith doesn’t react to his sour attitude still, and Lance is starting to get a little miffed.

“Yeah, but they’re way more powerful.” Keith says with a shrug.

There’s more information, Lance knows this because he can see all of it scattered on the table and stapled to the walls. The brunet waves his hand for a continuation, but Keith only stares back at him, narrowing his eyes in—

 _Okay,_ what?!

Keith expression holds malice and distrust of _him_.

 Lance can feel the first bubbles of irritation, and he scoffs, crossing his arms.

“And you think something like that is _real?_ ” Lance sneers. Keith isn’t fazed by Lance’s sour attitude, in fact, it seems like he’s expected it.

He shuffles through a pile of papers on his desk, gathering something like a miniature piece of paper, but Lance can see it’s much thicker and gleams in the low light.

It’s a picture, and Lance staggers back when he sees the content.

It’s him.

Accented by the moonlight, and high in the air is _Lance_.

His entire body is distorted, but he can pick out his own silhouette. It’s the night he and Hunk had gone downtown. It was such a long time ago, but Lance can remember it like it happened yesterday. The blue of his wings is distinguishable in the photo, and Lance sends Hunk a look terrified look.

“Where did you get this?” Lance demands, shaking hands balling at his sides.

Keith must mistake his tone for a challenge, instead of the frantic questioning it is.

“I took it myself when I was younger, so I know they’re real.” He retorts smugly.

Lance feels his breath leave him in panicked spurts, and he notices when Keith’s expression falls.

The teen opens his mouth, but Lance pushes him back. Lance is left weak in the face of the situation, so Keith only falters a step before he rights himself.

“Uh, what’s—“

Lance sucks in a sharp breath as he watches Keith’s mouth move, but he’s unable to hear past the roar in his ears. He shoves past Keith, barreling right into Hunk. The impact is hard, and Lance stumbles back before strong hands steady him.

Tears cloud his vision, and when he lifts his head to meet Hunk’s gaze he can barely see his friend’s face.

“You said…” Lance’s voice trembles. Venomous emotions begin to unfurl in Lance’s chest, it sends an uncomfortably hot wave over him, and Lance snatches his arms away. Hunk’s hands suspend in the air, empty and grasping. His friend begins to speak, and Lance grits his teeth so hard he feels pain in his jaw.

Hunk’s mouth snaps shut.

Lance wipes his cheeks, using his free hand to push Hunk out of the way. It shouldn’t be so easy, Hunk is like a brick wall in the presence of Lance’s strength, but his anger shifts Hunk into malleable putty.

He slams Keith’s door open, rushing down the hall, past Mr. Kogane who doesn’t even have enough time to shout after him before Lance is out the door.

Lance is at his yard in record time, but he slips on his way to the steps, managing to stumble away from the pavement before he faceplants into the grass. He sobs, extracting leaves from his sweater as he sits upright. No blood seeps from his nose, so Lance struggles to his feet.

He gasps fleeting breaths, worrying the ground in panicked circles.

 _He doesn’t know it was you. Calm down. Calm down._ Calm down _._

Lance moves toward the front door, ready to bury himself under his cover and never move again, but he remembers the supposed surprise and settles for pacing on the deck. His heels click against the wood, creating a steady beat he tries to focus on. His reprieve is short-lived, though. Panic shoots up his throat like vomit, a headache beginning to pulse behind his eyelids.

_Oh god._

He left when Keith hadn’t accused him of anything. _What could be more suspicious than that?_ Lance hears his breathing keen high in his ears. He’s wheezing, and he knows he needs to calm down, but the panic has settled in like venom, rattling through his veins and clouding his head.

The open space is too much, anyone looking through their windows will be able to spot him. He drops to his knees, tucking himself into the corner of the deck’s railing. There are no gaps in the fencing, but Lance still feels exposed. All someone would have to do is walk up the steps, and he would be spotted.

The left half is vacant, but the right isn’t.

He feels like a child switching positions hastily during a game of hide-and-seek as he rushes to the other side. Tears blur his vision, and he wipes them away so he can stuff himself into the space in between the plants and chairs. It’s cool and dark in his new spot, helping to calm Lance’s heart by a margin.

_Calm down._

_You can’t, he knows,_ a hidden part of him whispers, mocking.

_He doesn’t. It’s okay. Calm down._

It’s somewhere in-between Lance desperately willing his hands to stop shaking that he realizes his wings are still and have been that way since he caught sight of Keith. He’s not sure he wants to know what that implies— or if it implies anything at all. There’s no time to dwell on it because he can hear footsteps approaching. He doesn’t know who they belong to, so he shoves his weakening form behind the barricade of table, chairs, and plants, tucking into a ball to gain a semblance of space for just himself.

Lance hears his name, but they’re shouting, clearly unable to spot him.

 _Good_ , Lance thinks. He wraps his arms around his knees, ignoring the sharp sting from his back.

In an instant, darkness closes on Lance from every side, folding over him like claws.

The footsteps stop at the top of the steps, and Lance prays that whoever it is will get the message. He doesn’t hear when they encroach on him, nor does he feel the hands that tug.

_Breathe._

A voice as familiar as his own skin caresses him from within the dark.

 _Breathe_ , it speaks again, so he does.

The air he manages to suck in feels like razors on his throat, and dizziness swirls around his brain at the terrible sensation.

_Breathe._

Lance does, but it expels comically fast.

_Deeper._

He tries. A rock of dry ice drags down his throat, and he’s coughing up his saving grace like it’s bile.

There’s a gentle pull on his sleeve, and he feels his arm suspend in the air. A press to something unbelievably warm, a mixed sensation between mental and touch, and Lance feels it, a steady thrum of something alive under his palm.

In the darkness, something akin to a fire writhe’s in the distance. It twists and pulls like smoke, unfurling the dread that sits like a rock in Lance’s gut.

 _Breathe with me,_ the voice pleads.

_With?_

Lance doesn’t feel his mind connect with his mouth, and he frantically scrambles to find the plug because he wants to follow this command, to bond with something that isn’t the endless darkness. Then his palm moves, and the fire ripples, sending sparks of heat through him. A gentle wave rocks him, a steady rhythm of up and down.

Lance can sense the connection that had snapped. It mends itself with delicate precision, and Lance feels a sensation different from the fire in the dark.

He gasps in a deep breath, and the darkness caves way to stark white. But the light fizzles, snuffed out like a busted light bulb.

_Good, now do it again. Breathe with me._

The command is easier to follow this time, and Lance coughs on the inhale. His breath stutters, but the fire remains patient, swirling like billowing silk.

When breathing comes easier, Lance feels his sense’s snap to life.

His vision swims, the dark receding to the edge of his new world of color. All of it blends together for a long while before he can start to pick out distinct shapes. He’s still on the deck, but something is new. There’s a dark presence that looms over him, about as out of place as shade under a tree. Eyes akin to a bright, burning fire stare back at him, and Lance can see his hand pressed against the breast of the figure.

“Are you with me now?”

_Shiro?_

Lance squints, and the shadows that are drawn over the figure begin to withdraw, leaving the familiar company of his mentor.

“Shiro?” His voice scrapes his throat as it leaves. Lance clears his throat, rubbing his thin fingers over his neck.

“What happened?” Shiro questions.

Lance tries to remember anything before the darkness, but only draws several blanks. He peers up at his mentor with a look of confusion. Shiro’s concern only seems to grow, and Lance wishes he had the answers. “It’s okay, Little Bird, don’t strain yourself. How about we just breathe?” Shiro offers. Lance mulls it over, worried about the empty spot in his memories, but he nods.

It’s not like something like this hasn’t happened before. Experience tells him to go with the flow, whether he remembers or not.

He shuffles out of his hiding spot—

_Wait, why was I hiding?_

Lance chooses not to focus too hard as Shiro ushers him onto the steps.

He presses himself into Shiro’s side, tugging at the hem of his mentor’s shirt. Breathing comes easier, and he enjoys the freshness of the air. It’s gotten a bit cooler, enough that Lance is glad for his sweater.

“It’s nice out today.” He murmurs, casting a gaze to the stretch of blue.

The sun is high in the sky, and Lance watches the beams of light shine on the trees. The leaves cast a bright glow that makes Lance squint. Spots undeterred by the light allows the rays to shine through and speckle the ground in makeshift stars.

“Here, Little Bird,” Shiro says. Lance leans away far enough to see what’s being presented.

A single, lavender pill.

Lance takes it without complaint, a little too numb to put up a fight. Shiro holds up a water bottle, but Lance tilts his head back and dry swallows. It tugs on its way down, but the pain is so dulled he can hardly feel it.

He scans his eyes over the multitude of cars parked in the driveway, and along the curb.

“A lot of people turned out this year.” Lance whispers. Shiro hums his affirmation.

“They missed you a lot, Little Bird.” Is all he responds with.

Lance doesn’t feel up to keeping the conversation alive, so he just leans heavier into Shiro’s side, focusing on his mentor’s deep breaths.

Shiro rumbles faintly, a noise that tends to signal that he’s either deep in thought, or he’s about to start laughing.

“I should have gone over there with you. I didn’t know.” He whispers, sounding as if he isn’t really speaking to Lance directly.

_Deep in thought, then._

“Didn’t know what?” Lance questions.

Shiro frowns, eyes moving minutely, clearly mulling something over. But before he can open his mouth, there’s a sudden shout,

“Lance!”

_Hunk?_

His friend is jogging up the walkway, hair in disarray, and out of breath. A single taste of the dread Hunk exudes, and the memories are rushing back all at once. Lance grips Shiro’s hand with a strength he didn’t think he had in the moment. Hunk reaches out to Lance, a feeling of caution brushing up against Lance’s panic.

“Shiro? You out here? I need some help!” His father calls out.

Shiro jolts, causing Lance’s head to bump against the hardness of his bicep. It’s a momentary distraction, but it does help bring Lance back to himself.

_The pill must be working._

“Uh.” He says, troubled gaze bouncing between Lance and Hunk.

“Go see what he wants. I wanna talk to Hunk.” Lance murmurs, leaning away to brace himself for another conversation. He can practically taste Shiro’s reluctance as the elder removes himself from the steps. He catches Lance’s eyes, and Shiro nods solemnly.

“Call me if you need me.” He says, sending stern glares between Hunk and Lance.

“ _Call me if you need me._ ” Lance mocks in a tiny voice. Shiro’s shoulders sink a fraction, eyes flashing with a relief Lance is happy to grant him.

Shiro heads to the backyard, casting hesitant glances over his shoulder along the way.

 

After he’s gone from sight, Lance stands, meeting his friend halfway. Hunk looks close to tears, and Lance won’t have that. He opens his arms, and Hunk shoots forward. Of course, Hunk is much larger than him, but Lance has enough strength to hold them both up.

 “Lance, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know he had photos. The info he gave never matched you, so I didn’t think they correlated,” Hunk says in one breath. Lance shakes his head rapidly, placing a hand on his calming heartbeat. “He doesn’t know you’re not human, I swear. He didn’t even think of that when you left.” He chokes out. Lance’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Really?” He asks, voice shaking. Hunk beams, face alight with boggling relief.

“Yeah! I told him how scary you might have thought the thing was, and if it were real it would make you freak.” Hunk explains. Lance’s shoulders sink, matching Hunk’s relief.

“Lance, I’m so so _so_ —“

“It’s _okay_ , Hunk. I know you didn’t know.” He says, placing his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “That was a little scary, but if you say he’s harmless,” Lance takes a deep breath.

Releases it.

“Then I trust you.” Lance says as sincerely as he can. Hunk brightens immediately, eyes flashing with mirth before he thrusts himself further into Lance’s arms. He can’t feel the tears, but he knows they’re there. Lance pats his friend’s hair, chuckling quietly. Hunk is careful of Lance’s back as he hugs him to his chest.

 “I love you, man!” Hunk sniffles, mucus rattling loudly.

Lance rolls his eyes.

“I love you too, you big sap.” Lance says endearingly. Hunk wipes at his eyes, a grin plays at the edge of his lips.

“You started it.” He breathes.

A short length of time passes before Hunk speaks. “Lance, I’m not going to excuse how Keith treated you. I even gave him an earful after you left.” Hunks says proudly. Lance snorts, wiping his tears on his sleeve. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to talk to him again.” Hunk starts, but Lance waves him off.

“You said he was nice, so—“

“Ah-ah, no,” Hunk interrupts. “You can only react to how a person acts in the moment, not in how they act in another. He acted like a douche back there, and if you don’t want to see him again, I’ll understand. But, knowing Keith and his family. He’s going to want to apologize,” Hunk pulls short, hands shooting up. “But that does not mean you have to forgive him,” He says quickly. “Heck, you could turn him away right there and he wouldn’t be able to do anything,” Hunk taps the toe of his shoe against the pavement in a steady rhythm. “It’ll only be what you want, man. No pressure, okay?”

Lance purses his lips.

“But you want me to be friends with him?” He asks uncertainly. Hunk clicks his tongue, sending Lance a patient look.

“What did I just say?”

Lance chuckles, and sits on the steps, stretching his legs out to dig his heel into the pavement. He listens to the faint crunch the pebbles make under his feet. The wind keens lowly in his ears, and Lance closes his eyes as he tilts his head skyward. He feels the air next to him shift as Hunk joins him. The bigger man radiates warmth, and Lance leans into it, frantic to keep the moment from ending.

He doesn’t have to think about it for long.

“You,” Lance pauses, opening his eyes to the wide canvas of blue. Hunk tilts his head questioningly. “You can bring him over. I want to try to be friends with him. I-I,” Lance takes a shuddering breath as he steadies his pulse. “I want to be friends with your friends.” He finishes, tugging on the sleeves of his sweater.

Hunk appears taken aback before the brightest smile lights his face.

“Only what you want, man.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lance waves to Hunk as his friend crosses the street. The air behind him shifts, and the shadow of the house begins to twist subtly.

“You ready, Little Blue?” Shiro asks, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. Lance turns to the elder, a genuine smile stretches his lips. Shiro regards it with pleased surprise.

“I’m up for anything!”

 

When Lance enters the house, everyone jumps out of places in the foyer he didn’t know existed. The balloons rain down onto him, and Lance ducks his head with a laugh. His family swarms him with warm smiles and crushing hugs. Every face in the crowd is familiar, and Lance bends down to welcome his small nieces and nephews into his arms.

They press their tiny hands and faces to his chest, already having been drilled the information that no one touches his back.

Lance lifts the smallest onto his hip as they cross into the living room. He turns to find that Shiro has disappeared, no doubt to help his parents with the food he can smell wafting in through the patio door.

His small relatives all beg for his attention at once, and Lance laughs as they pull him along by his fingers.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He’s lounging on the steps, nails painted and hair thoroughly played with, when he feels Shiro’s approach. His nieces and nephews all swarm Shiro’s legs in an instant, begging to be lifted and spun around, but Shiro bats them away with laughter and issued promises for each of them.

Lance regards him with an inquisitive stare, catching on as soon as Shiro sends him a meaningful glance to the house.

_Oh._

He takes a deep breath, running his hands through his hair to tame the tousled locks, and Shiro’s eyebrows knit together.

When Lance strolls past, he holds his hand up to stop Shiro’s attempt to follow. “I’ve got this. You’ll be close by, right?” He asks, already knowing the answer. The kids swarm Shiro’s legs, and the elder sputters in surprise. Lance watches him be tugged off, staving off laughter when Shiro actually trips, letting the kids climb onto him like an abandoned amusement park ride.

He turns away, spotting Keith near the gate leading to his backyard. His father stands next to him, seeming to have sparked a friendly conversation with Lance’s parents.

Keith's head turns slowly as he scans his eyes over the backyard, and Lance quickly spins on his heel just as that gaze is about to roll over him. He busies himself with gathering a cup of juice from a punch bowl. It takes an embarrassing amount of time to actually get it into the cup, and his fingers narrowly avoid getting doused by the time he finishes. He takes a small sip, and he barely tastes it as it rushes past his tongue. Lance spins slowly, leaning one hand on the table to appear more casual than he feels. He completely skirts over Keith, gluing his gaze to Hunk, who stands a few feet away.       

Hunk’s eyes are wide, trying to grasp Lance’s emotions from the short distance. Lance beams, waving him off.

_I got this._

He sends his confidence to Hunk in a one, short pulse. Hunk turns away then, but Lance can still feel his friend’s attentiveness.

Keith is upon him now, and the raven-haired teen stops short, planting himself right in front of Lance. He appears nervous, and Lance notes the expression with a hint of smugness. He doesn’t say anything right away, which gives Lance a moment to assess him.

Keith is actually cleaner now, and Lance can see how thick his eyebrows are, matching his father. He wears a black, cropped leather jacket, with a dark red shirt underneath. His jeans are black too, and tight against his legs. They’re tucked into a pair of intimidating combat boots, and the look is so punk it almost makes Lance laugh from shock.

Keith had been sending out a lot of vibes, but “punk loner” wasn’t one of them.

“I’m really sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have treated you like that,” Keith suddenly says.

Lance jumps. He half expected Keith to jump through hoops, maybe try to spark a little awkward small talk. The honest emotions Keith appears to wear on his sleeve makes Lance’s brain flip. It’s bizarre, Keith had been such an oddity at his home, but now Lance can read him like a book.

It’s just a tad disorienting.

“Uh,” Keith mutters, rubbing a hand down his forearm. “I’m really sorry for scaring you, too.” His expression is vulnerable and soft. It takes Lance off guard, and he nods his head numbly.

“I-it’s okay. I didn’t mean to just run out,” He lies, casting his gaze to the grass. Lance taps the side of his cup with his fingertip, a strange heat settling over his heart. “I shouldn’t have been mean to you, either. Sorry.” He adds in a whisper.

“No, that’s completely on me. Hunk told me how you are about meeting new people, I should’ve tried to be nicer. He even told me he was thinking about bringing you over,” Keith says dismissively, shaking his head. “And he said how you were about dirt. I completely forgot about that though, so that probably didn’t help.”

Lance frowns.

“I thought you didn’t remember me?” Lance says. Keith jumps as if he’d been shocked. Lance instinctively moves away, already aware as to how the material of a sweater can act.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Keith chuckles nervously, rubbing his forearm more insistently. “I kind of got nervous, and that isn’t a good reason at all, but it’s the only thing I’ve got. And I am so ashamed that I acted that way, that should not have been my first reaction, I apologize.” Keith looks downright miserable, and Lance offers a small smile.

“What were you nervous about?” Lance inquires patiently. Keith jolts again, and Lance doesn’t think physics is at fault here.

“You,” Keith’s eyes flicker back to Lance for a short moment. “You have a face.” He babbles out.

Keith’s tone isn’t insulting. It’s one that he’s heard his father use on his mother many times when complimenting her outfit.

Lance chalks it up to a phrase he hasn’t heard of before and smiles wider.

“Thanks, Keith. You have a face, too!” Lance responds, trying to match Keith’s tone.

His new friend hasn’t been unpleasant so far, so Lance will pay compliments forward when they’re due.

The teen frowns, turning his head to regard Lance for a short moment. Already used to the looks, Lance only stares back at him, smile unwavering.

A twisted expression flashes across Keith’s face before it falls. Lance tilts his head, taking a sip of his beverage.

“Thanks?” Keith says uncertainly, which gives Lance pause.

Had he completed the exchange wrong? Did he need to say something else? Keith is proving himself to be a pretty decent person, so Lance would like any chance to remedy the situation, but he isn’t sure how.

An idea flickers in Lance’s mind.

“Have you had any food?” Lance asks excitedly. Keith seems to start at the abrupt subject change, and shakes his head as if it were the only thing he was programmed to do. “You’re gonna love it! Hunk made it, and he’s the best cook ever!” Lance exclaims, snatching one of the teen’s hands into his grip.

He notices Keith’s hands are a bit calloused, but they’re warm and soft in their own way.

They’re at the banquet table after a short walk. Some of his family members are gathered at the plates, and they greet him heartily. Hugs and words are exchanged quickly, and Lance is waving to his aunts as they walk to gather somewhere else.

Keith has settled himself at the plates, not looking as out of place as Lance would expect. His strangely colored irises are bouncing between Lance’s family, accessing them with the curious laziness of a passing feline. His gaze suddenly locks onto Lance, and Lance apologizes, not having meant to get so caught up in his relatives. Keith gives him a dismissive wave, picking up a paper plate from the shortening stack.

“Do whatever you want.” Is all he says.

They mow through the food selection quickly, moving to situate themselves at the table on the patio. The umbrella shields them from the sun overhead, and Keith seems to sigh in relief at the cooling shade.

The patio is only littered with a handful of Lance’s family, but they’re a fair distance away, so Lance doesn’t have to lean in when he questions, “So, what is your family doing in this neighborhood?”

Keith narrows his eyes, and Lance tilts his head, waiting for Keith to speak. Surprise flashes across Keith’s face before he’s clearing his throat.

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“It seems like you guys prefer the outdoors. A home in the suburbs doesn’t feel like your family’s style.” Lance clarifies.

Keith hums, nodding faintly.

“You’re right. But my mom finally got her promotion, and we had to move somewhere close. This was the only neighborhood without American flags in the front yard, and confederate flags glued to the cars,” Keith explains. He clears his throat at the end, turning his head to watch as Lance’s younger family members start to jump into the pool. Keith works his fork into his food, expression twisted with an unnamed emotion. He sets down the utensil with a sigh, scrubbing his face with his hand.

Lance tilts his head questioningly, worried that the food isn’t up to par. Before he can inquire about it, Keith suddenly says, “Thanks for giving me a second chance,” It’s rushed through a single breath, and Lance blinks. “I really didn’t deserve it, but thank you.” Keith says, gratefulness unquestioningly locked in his tone.

“No problem. Hunk likes you, so I figured you couldn’t be _that_ much of a jerk.” Lance jokes.

Keith grins, eyes crinkling. The expression is soft, like rays of white, morning light.

“Hunk talks about you all the time. You’re louder than he says.” Keith doesn’t bother dodging the shoulder push Lance gives him.

“There’s the jerk.” He shoots back, a wolfish grin on his lips.

They laugh quietly, returning to their plates with renewed enthusiasm.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lance had assumed he would be the one providing most of the conversation, but Keith continues to defy expectation.

Keith listens to him speak and adds whatever he feels is necessary, most of the time furthering the conversation so it branches into other subjects.

It’s nice.

Something warm sits in the pit of Lance’s gut, his head featherlight as he lets the feeling coast over him.

It doesn’t go away, even as a dark cloud begins to nudge his thoughts for his attention.

Lance pushes through his anxiety, unable to ignore his curiosity any longer.

“So, what’s up with the Blue Fairy?” He prods, scooting close to Keith to hear over the roar of the party.

Keith blinks owlishly, clearly taken aback.

“Lance, we don’t have to talk about that—“

“No, we don’t, but I want to,” Lance admits, taking a deep breath. “It sounds really interesting, looks aside.” He adds with a grin. Keith pins him with an inquisitive stare, no doubt looking for anything negative to discern and reveal.

“I actually have some more pictures here,”

_What?!_

Keith shuffles, reaching into his pocket to pull out several white, squared laminated pictures. He must notice Lance’s expression soon after because he quickly adds, “I was about to hang them up before I came over. These photos are really important to me, though. I didn’t want to just leave them on the desk. Once I set something down it tends to disappear forever.” He explains with a shrug.

From Keith’s tone, Lance thinks that it’s not as casual as he’s making it out to be. Lance swallows and holds his hand out, desperately trying to stop them from shaking.

He’s never held a polaroid picture in his hand. The texture is odd and doesn’t feel at all like the cold, hard metal of a cellphone. It’s flimsy in his grasp, and Lance zeroes in on the dark images before him.

He expects to see himself from different angles, but that isn’t the case.

Every landscape presents a forest during nightfall. The trees are dense, and moonlight streams from scattered gaps of leaves. He catches sight of the distinct blue wings, but there’s something off.

The color of the wings is different for each picture.

They’re all blue, but different shades. One color is so bright, it appears white where the moonlight hits.

Lance bites his lip to stop from shaking. He scans his eyes over each photograph carefully. The figure in each picture is distorted. At first glance, it’s almost like they’d been moving too fast to properly capture them, but the wings remain perfectly static. It’s almost like the figure had been in the process of disappearing into smoke. It's oddly beautiful. The figure itself is as dark as the inky black of the night sky, nothing can be discerned from it.

“How did you take these?” Lance breathes. The shots are close, and Lance realizes his picture had been the same way.

Keith hums.

“The Polaroid camera I have is pretty advanced, so it has a pretty good zoom function so I don’t need to get close. It’s been in my family for generations if you can believe that.” He explains.

Lance doesn’t know the first thing about polaroid’s, so he keeps his mouth shut. But he does know that if he tells his phone to take a selfie it takes a photo. He asks Keith if the “polaroid” are the same.      

Lance earns himself another strange expression from Keith, and he stares back, puzzled.

_What did I say?_

“No,” Keith eventually responds. The odd look is still there, but Lance disregards it. He’s got his answer, no need to dwell on it.

He goes back to the pictures, shuffling his own from the short stack. Lance is glad when his heart only stutters once, then falls back into pace.

“You’re actually interested in this.” It sounds like how a question would be phrased, but it’s said like a statement.

To Lance’s confusion, Keith sounds almost _skeptical_.

Lance’s confusion only grows.

_I don’t seem like a liar, do I?_

It makes Lance wonder if people lie a lot to Keith.

“Yeah. Can you, uh,” The heat is spreading onto Lance’s cheekbones again, and he thinks the feeling might as well cake itself on, make itself at home. “Can you tell me more about them?” He asks.

Keith levels him with a heavy stare. It peels back a layer of protection over Lance’s emotions, chafing him with his own uneasiness. Lance wants to physically fight the blush now, but it spreads to his ears, unabated.

Keith smiles suddenly, soft as velvet.

“Do you want to come over tomorrow?” Keith leans toward Lance as he speaks, and the brunet feels his heart race. Keith continues, unaware of Lance’s predicament, “I would tell you everything now, but this is your party, and I wouldn’t want to hog your attention from your family.”

 “I-I,” Lance swallows, mouth drying fast.

He hasn’t even been to Hunk’s home.

Keith picks up on his hesitance and opens his mouth, but Lance sputters to intercept him. “Okay! What time?” He breathes out, blood roaring in his ears. Keith tilts his head, clearly not ready to let go of Lance’s momentary fumble. “Really, I want to come over.” He tacks on, gripping his fork tight.

“Any time after nine would be great. I didn’t get much sleep last night, and the move is finally getting to me.” Keith admits, still giving Lance that prying look.

Lance nods, offering a small smile.

“After nine, then.” He says, quenching every spark of worry he feels dance along his spine.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *+:｡.｡ look at this endnote shimmer　｡.｡:+*


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